One Simple Phone Call
by UnknownOrigin67
Summary: AU where Adam joins the family at an early age.  Warning:  SPANKING
1. FUBAR

Yes, this is a spanking fic. It is going to be a multiple chaptered story on Adam joining the family and, hopefully, the emphasis is going to be more on the familial relationships than on the discipline. Please do not read it if the content offends you. It's not for everyone and I don't really want to be flamed by a million people telling me how horrible the discipline is.

OSPCOSPCOSPC

Funny how something as small and routine as a simple phone call can change your life forever.

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The one positive thing that John Winchester found about the arduous and somewhat mundane task of researching in the more southern states was the consistent and somewhat gratuitous use of air conditioning in all of the public record buildings.

Sure, he was used to living rough and having to relentlessly forge ahead under any conditions with whatever needed doing, be it a hunt or a day labor job taken for some fast cash. He was tough, didn't complain, even as streaks of slick sweat cascaded down his rugged and still quite handsome face or pooled into a sticky puddle at the small of his muscular back. His tour in Nam had broken him of any preciousness he held regarding personal comfort a long time ago.

Ever the persistent instructor, he had made sure that his boys learned to live with discomfort as well. You just couldn't be too careful with the life they lived, the things they did. They never knew where the next hunt would take them. What the circumstances might be or even the time of year or the weather. No matter how much his youngest child saw fit to bitch about the unfairness of it all, a Winchester couldn't afford to be prissy about something like a little sweltering heat during a seven hour stake out for a Chupacabra in southern Texas in August.

Which is_ exactly _how they had spent last Sunday before moving east once the hunt was finished.

Still, when their latest no-tell motel carried all the creature comforts of a prison farm, and there were mountains of woefully anticipated hours of research that needed to be addressed, there was just nothing more decadent than sitting down with a pile of local reference materials in a library in Memphis, where the AC was cranked so high that it actually produced gooseflesh.

John finished examining a stack of old newspapers and then stood to stretch out his back. Pulling his arms to the side, he tried to ignore the popping sounds that his sorely abused joints made. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Dean smirking before chancing a quick peek at his father. A well perfected paternal scowl dissuaded the nineteen year old from making any _old man_ jokes, even though the scowl was followed by a good humored wink from said old man. Still grinning, green eyes twinkling mischievously, Dean returned his full attention to the death records he was working on, his smart ass firmly checked for the moment.

John leaned over to grab the stack of yellowed papers that he had carefully combed through to exchange them for another pile that might hopefully yield more helpful details. Frowning irritably, it didn't escape his notice that his younger son was barely leafing through the birth records that were his assigned task for the afternoon. The large book lay open in front of him, a scant few pages more progressed than it had been a half an hour ago when John had last checked. Sammy's head was propped up on his left hand, his right hand holding a pencil, the lead point only slightly duller thanks to the random doodling that was littering the page of his lackluster notes.

The weary father didn't even have the energy to sigh at the disjointed picture of his sons. Dean, his spikey haired head bent over his book in fierce concentration, the eraser of his pencil jammed between his teeth a sure sign that the boy was deeply concentrating on the pages in front of him. Sam, physically present in the cavernous room with his father and brother, but clearly mentally sitting in some dreamworld classroom where algebra and Shakespearean prose were the things that kept you safe at night.

John clenched his teeth as he fought back a wave of irritation at his youngest's lack of concern and blatant disobedience. Sam would study for hours on end, writing and rewriting papers until they were letter perfect. Just as long as the work was for whatever school they were currently enrolled in, of course. The boy was undeniably smart, a real natural in the field of academics, and even the rugged hunter in John would beam proudly when handed Sam's exceptional report cards at the end of the terms. All the while, Dean would hover in the background, posture stiff and straight as any grunt, patiently waiting for his little brother to have his moment in the sun before his own less than stellar grades were presented.

Dean was just as smart as Sam. That, John knew for sure. He may not appreciate literature or speak foreign languages (unfortunate for a future hunter, where an inability to master Latin could literally be the death of him), but Dean had a way of looking at something and seeing the mechanics of it. Whether it was his car or really any kind of mechanical device, Dean could rip it apart and reassemble it in his sleep in new and creative ways. He could see through patterns and detect irregularities even better than John could himself. But, formal schooling had always been difficult for his oldest child.

John knew his son better than anyone else. Most people saw Dean's overconfident smirk and cocky swagger and assumed that he was just a pompous Romeo looking to impress.

His father knew better.

On the contrary, the eldest Winchester son had been shy from birth, unnaturally quiet and unquestioningly introspective. He had gone completely mute for months after the fire, only eventually regaining his voice when John finally convinced him that his mommy would want him to be a brave big brother for little Sammy. What Sammy needed, Dean had always desperately tried to provide. As a result, Dean's cover personality was eventually born, all smart ass remarks and bullish manners, but, underneath, John still saw his shy little boy.

If his father would have let him, Dean would have started hunting at age five. He embraced John's obsession, with equal passion if not quite equal fanaticism, and all his energy went into training and keeping Sam safe. There was no time in his schedule for something as mundane as general education.

They moved so much that he never bothered making friends. He had his father. He had his brother. What more did he need?

And while John appreciated his son's dedication on both fronts, he knew the surest way to guarantee meeting his beloved Mary as an angry spirit would be if he didn't push Dean to graduate. So he pushed and pushed, with little results.

If John told Dean to jump, Dean would ask how high. _Always_. Which is why it had perturbed him to no end when his son would repeatedly defy him regarding his school work. _Was the work too hard?_ he'd ask. _Do you have trouble understanding it?_ _Is it too easy? Are you bored? _John's questions were always answered with a no. Dean just didn't want to be in school, plain and simple, and his father couldn't figure out why.

Still, he expected Dean to obey and follow his rules, especially given their precarious style of living. After a rather impressive run of missed assignments, failed tests and skipped detentions led to a close encounter with social services in Biloxi, the issue was finally forced to the point that John genuinely feared losing his sons to the state. His ice cold panic fueling his rage, John had packed up the boys faster than they had ever moved on before and drove on back country roads like a man possessed for almost two days, certain that they were only just ahead of well intentioned but naive do-gooders who would separate him from his babies.

He never stopped for anything but gas and coffee until they were in Kansas when, without explanation or warning, he slammed on the brakes, jammed the gear shift into park and hauled Dean out of the back seat of the Impala where his oldest had been relegated to sharing the space with Sammy for the first time in years. Dean never uttered a sound as he was dragged around to the back of the car and bent over the trunk. Even the sickeningly familiar sound of his father's belt being pulled from the loops of his jeans failed to prompt the boy to speak a single word.

With one hand, John had yanked down Dean's pants and cotton briefs and with the other he wielded the belt, laying stripe after stripe across his son's behind and thighs. Stripes that immediately raised red angry welts that caused Dean to sputter for breath, even as he clamped his mouth shut, refusing to beg or plead his way out. Fortunately, or more likely for Dean, unfortunately, the older boy didn't need the release of crying out during his punishment. He had his brother to do it for him.

Sammy, having come flying out of his seat in the Impala was screaming bloody murder for John to stop, unsuccessfully grabbing for the belt that was inflicting such pain on his beloved big brother. Harshly barked commands for Sam to remove himself from the belt's path went unheeded until John was forced to used the hand that was holding Dean against the trunk to grab for Sam, now pushing his youngest against the trunk as well. Squirming futilely against the iron restraint that held him in place, Sam had settled for howling at the top of his lungs, tears bitterly streaming down his still plump cheeks. Dean had turned his face sideways, pressed hard against the Impala's sleek black shine, his silent crying leaving clear slimy trails of tears and snot over the gloss.

It was when John saw Dean snake an arm out to reach Sammy to console the distraught child that his anger evaporated. The sight of his oldest son, selflessly giving comfort to his little brother while he himself was enduring the harshest whipping of his life, bled all of the heat out of John's anger. He had dropped the belt onto the ground and released his hold on both of his sons, taking a few steps back to gather his wits. Sam had immediately launched himself at his older brother, barely giving Dean time to painfully adjust his clothing before pressing himself so hard against his big brother's chest that John would not have been surprised if they had become fused

Dean had held Sammy tightly, murmuring soft words of comfort, their faces pressed close together and their tears intermingling. John ached to put his arms around his children, his palpable fear of how close he had come to losing them almost choking him. Sammy had managed to find the ire to throw more than one scathing glare in his father's direction, only finding consolation when his face was pressed into Dean's neck. Dean's eyes were at once pleading for forgiveness and offering forgiveness in kind, his body language inviting the now also crying John to join the boys' huddle. Moving quickly, he wrapped his arms around his sons, holding them as tightly as he could, thanking a God that he wasn't sure he believed in anymore for the chance to do so.

And so it was that the three Winchester men, entangled in each other's embrace, quietly cried on the side of a deserted road. And if anyone happened to notice that they were within a stone's throw of Lawrence, no one said a word about it.

Things improved for a while. Every so often Dean would slip back into bad habits and John would have to put him back over his knee and express a little paternal disapproval. The Winchesters, by necessity, didn't have much in the way of variety when it came to their discipline arsenal. Grounding them would imply that the boys had regular privileges and social lives, which they certainly did not. They both had a heavy chore load as it was, and John wasn't one who believed in punishing one son by increasing chores as it ultimately resulted in rewarding the other with less. The same with extra training. Unless John was home, he couldn't very well order Dean to run extra miles as he would have to drag Sam along with him. Likewise, he couldn't order Dean to bed earlier than normal as he usually was caring for Sam.

By process of elimination, that left corporal punishment, but damned if he didn't feel like heartless hardass sometimes as a result. The heartbroken guilty look on his oldest son's face after a punishment nearly brought John to his knees on occasion. Dean wouldn't cry. He would simply take all that was handed to him and be ready for more, never uttering a complaint and leaving his father floundering for a satisfactory reason as to why the normally compliant boy would _just not obey_.

When Dean was seventeen with eighteen approaching fast, by some previously unused miracle, he managed to make it to his senior year and John finally felt the first warm rays of real hope that they would actually complete the boy's formal education. Dean was of an age where he could drop out without parental consent and John wasn't stupid enough to believe that his son went willingly to his classes for any reason other than being able to watch out for his little brother during the day.

That fall, however, John had had to park the boys in Sioux City, Indiana for close to a month by themselves before he could return. He never asked what happened at Truman High, but it was the end of Dean's academic career. When they landed in their next temporary town, Dean had flat out refused to be enrolled. John irritably resorted to threatening him with his belt, and Dean had squared his shoulders and verbally shooed Sammy out of the room. Removing his own belt, Dean had handed it to his father before dropping his jeans and bending over the rickety kitchenette table. His posture stiff, his muscles taut, his jaw firm as he stared straight ahead.

"I'm not ever going back," he had stated quietly, but firmly. His voice was sure and steady, carrying no tone of insolence towards his father, but leaving no room for doubt on the subject either.

By this point in their lives, Sammy had started to rebel against researching for their hunts and John, always striving to be what he considered a fair man, had begun matching Sam's _refusal to research _spankings with Dean's _refusal to study_ spankings, smack for smack. Quite frankly, he was tired of having to discipline both of his boys so regularly and wearily started to fear for the longevity of his gun hand. Surely it would give out long before the boys were fully raised up if things continued as they were. So now, with Dean so clearly determined, and willing to put his money - or, in this case, his ass - where his mouth was, his father backed down for one of the few times in his life.

That Monday, only Sam was enrolled in school. A few days later, Dean had a part time job at a small garage that paid under the table. A few weeks after that, Dean had his GED and his schooling was never mentioned again. John spent exactly one evening crawled deeply inside a bottle of Jack, Dean's GED notice clenched tightly in his hand, wordlessly begging Mary's forgiveness for taking the cowardly way out with their firstborn's education.

Now, walking behind Sammy's chair, John reached out a hand and purposefully tapped his index finger on the open page of the birth records book. Sammy risked a scowl from underneath his long bangs, earning a glare of laser intensity from his father in return. Sam huffed, John cocked a dangerous eyebrow and, from across the table, Dean innocently cleared his throat in a manner that didn't imply innocence at all. Sam crossed his arms, John crossed his and moved closer to his son. Dean shot to his feet and swiftly traded his book and meticulous notes for Sam's book and practically empty tablet.

"Let's switch for a while, dude. The deaths are depressing the hell out of me."

Grudgingly, Sam accepted his brother's more than generous offer and John allowed it, if to only get the job done that much quicker. A parting glance from his father promised Sam further discussion on the matter back at the motel and Sam knew that he had pushed too far. He'd be lucky if he wasn't sleeping on his stomach tonight. He picked up the pencil and wisely went to work, his father's eyes boring a hole in the back of his head for another moment before leaving for the periodicals desk.

Once again a weary soldier in a battle of wills with his own child, John rubbed the back of his neck and tilted his head upwards, closing his eyes and enjoying the cool breeze pushing down from the ceiling vents as he waited at the desk for his next request to be filled. Every few seconds he would crane his neck sharply to the left so that he could catch a glimpse of the table where the boys were sitting.

By habit he had parked them at a table between two stacks and a windowless wall, so they were as secluded as possible. The chances that they would be in danger in a public library in the middle of the afternoon were small, but the protector in him didn't take risks if he could help it. Dean was once again engrossed in his book and, thankfully, it looked like Sam was too.

Like always, just the sight of his boys, healthy and safe as they could be in their world significantly loosened the tight knot that was ever present in John's chest. Every glimpse of their precious faces was the fuel that kept him going long after his mind and body pleaded with him to lay down his mantle of vengeance.

Unfortunately, today was also one of those days when it physically hurt to look at Dean. Face placid and unmasked when he read, he looked achingly young and so much like Mary that it was hard for John to breathe. Dean got his peacemaking skills from his mother too. Mary had been a natural at smoothing ruffled feathers. From the day they had fallen in love, she had been the calm in John's storm and without her, he struggled against the very forces of nature to keep himself grounded for his children. Unfairly, as his eldest grew, John had found himself gripping to Dean just as tightly for balance.

His eldest child's devotion and admiration were a crutch that John took advantage of far too often. One day, one day soon, he would end all of this madness and he swore to himself that he would make everything up to both of his children. Until then, he would push down the feelings of guilt that plagued him into sleeplessness about the unhealthy life he had plunged his boys into.

The steady _whoosh _of the air vent sputtered briefly, catching John's attention and immediately triggering his ingrained instinct to look for threats. It only took a brief second for him to catch himself, forcing his heart rate to steady. Convinced that it was only a matter of the overuse of aging equipment.

Glancing at his sons again and smirking slightly at the sight of Dean twisting his mouth into wicked grin, clearly announcing his intention to rile up his brooding younger brother. As much as John would love to allow his eldest the simple pleasure of big brother ribbing, he wasn't up to dealing with the ill tempered fallout that would surely result from whatever it was that Dean had planned. He caught his son's eye and shook his head slightly, a stern frown on his face that immediately sobered the older boy. Feeling bad, John was about to reward the obedient compliance with an approving smile when he felt his cellphone vibrate in his pocket.

At the table, Dean had caught his father's visual message loud and clear. _No starting shit with Sammy_. He briefly contemplated carrying out his plan anyway, but just as quickly discarded the idea. No matter how much Sammy had been begging for a comeuppance, Dean knew better than to poke the bear after his father had specifically warned him not too. He was also a little bit wary of just how pissed of a mood his dad was in right now. Searching John's face for clarification, Dean was left hanging when he saw his father slide his hand into his front pocket and extract his phone.

Although immediately curious when his father grimaced at the number and darted outside to answer, Dean bit his tongue, like the good solider that he was, and waited patiently for the orders that were surely coming their way. Not many people had John's phone number, and the ones that did only incited that kind of response in his father when there was some deep shit going on. Dean quietly closed the book he had been reading, catching Sam's eye and giving him _The Look_. Sam frowned, but he continued making notes, the geek boy in him determined to complete the research now that he had bothered to start it, even though they both knew that they were most likely done for the day.

John often took mysterious calls. It was part of the job, after all. They usually ended in their father announcing an abrupt change of plans. It would be a new lead or another attack, something that required their immediate attention. They would grab their stuff and book. Lives were always at stake, danger was always lurking about, and they couldn't afford to screw around. But what Dean wasn't prepared for was the wild look in his father's eyes when he stomped back into the library and ordered Dean and Sam to pack up everything and hightail it to Uncle Bobby's house.

Dean didn't ask for any further explanation, the _yes, sir _coming automatically, like it always had. He just started grabbing everything that they had brought in with them, shoving the various books and papers into his backpack. Sam however, in his habitually true form of questioning every word that came out of their father's mouth, sat stubbornly in his chair and refused to budge.

"Why?"

With that one little word, Dean sucked in a breath, his busy hands stilling in their task, as he waited for the inevitable fallout.

John didn't care for his younger son's insolence on the best of days and, by the telling anxiety clouding his eyes, this was definitely not one of those. On a better day, their father might have allowed Sam's small stab at insubordination pass relatively unchecked, just for the sake of keeping the peace with a surly fifteen year old who was constantly spoiling for a fight. Sam may have caught an earful and then been given all of the dirty grunt work for the hunt, or John might have opted for confining his youngest to the car for the rest of the hunt and then sending Sam to bed early like a cranky three year old, but that would have been the extent of it.

Neither boy was prepared for their father's reaction this time. Without saying a word, John grabbed Sam roughly by the elbow and hoisted him up out of the chair. Lifting his hand high into the air, their father brought it crashing down across Sam's behind, the sound of the smack bouncing off of the walls and echoing loudly throughout the cavernous room.

Sammy's grunt of pain and the shocked look on his face was enough to kick in Dean's protective big brother instincts, and he had to force himself to rein in a desire to step in between his father and little brother. John did not take kindly to his oldest son interfering with discipline, but he usually did not lose his temper so quickly either, so Dean knew right away that something serious and most likely life threatening was going on at the moment. Something so far past the already abnormally high level of messed up in their lives that John skipped the middle steps and went directly to _Mad Dad_.

Sam didn't say a word, his face flushed with hurt and probably a good measure of embarrassment. Even though they had been holed up in their own quiet corner of the library, the smacking sound was clear and distinct. It wasn't likely that someone would mistake it for a falling book.

Years of their father's strict discipline ingrained into him, he didn't even try to pull his arm out of John's tightly gripped hand, instead sliding quietly into a more submissive position bent over the table and waiting for either permission to obey the earlier command or to receive further correction for his attitude.

John was not a man that quickly and arbitrarily spanked his boys. It generally took a good deal of nonsense or insubordination to get him to the point where he let his hand or belt start to make his points. However, Sam knew that once this line had been crossed, his father was unmoving about his position and a punishment _always_ was followed through with. Years of pushing boundaries and John's buttons in general had taught Sam that, once his dad starting spanking, the wisest and least painful course of action was acceptance, obedience and contrition.

In the tense few seconds following the smack, Dean chanted a prayer in his head that his father would just herd them out the door. As a rule, John refrained from spanking his boys in public, but it had been known to happen when they were younger and, with the thunderous look on the man's face, his oldest was afraid that this might qualify as one of those rare occasions, regardless of Sammy's age.

John was too distracted to pay close attention to the shift in his younger son's demeanor but, fortunately for Sam's behind, he clearly was pressed for time. His breath coming in long heavy draws, he leaned forward slightly, enough to press his mouth closely to Sam's left ear.

"Get your ass in the car while you can still sit down," he growled.

Chastised and humiliated, Sam clenched his jaw tight, throwing a quick baleful look in his brother's direction. Dean's pleading face convinced him to refrain from escalating the situation further.

"Yes, sir," he ground out, convincingly enough, apparently, for John to release his hold and push his rebellious child towards the exit.

With John's visible desire to hurry, the three of them bolted for the parking lot. The boys were allowed five whole minutes at their latest motel to gather all of their worldly possessions, something they were used to doing. It was not the first, nor likely to be the last time they left town in a hurry.

Dean's sense of impending dread heightened considerably during the hurried and tension filled drive north. His father drove ahead of them in his pickup, the landscape whizzing past them as they barreled onwards, pushing speeds that John normally frowned upon as it drew unwanted attention to them.

They drove in tandem as far as Kansas City when their father pulled over at a rest stop without warning. Dean's quick reflexes managed to swing the Impala onto the off-ramp just in time to follow and park next to John, the black beauty's large tires kicking up pebbles as he came to an abrupt stop. If Dean had not been jumpy about the situation before, he certainly was after their father exited his truck, bringing over a large manila envelope and shoving it at Dean through the open car window.

"I'm going on radio silence," John said, his voice strong and steady, but his thick dark eyebrows drawn in concern. "You don't hear from me in three days, it's FUBAR."

Those few little words left Dean feeling panicked and cold and he knew immediately what the envelope was for.

When Dean was sixteen, John had returned home from a hunt one night more shaken than he ever had been before. His father had never spoken about what happened but, a few days later, he had pulled Dean aside after Sammy was in bed and walked him outside to the car. There he had told him that there might come a day when something had gone so terribly wrong that Dean and Sam would be forced to run. Forced to run without their father and forced to never look back.

The code word was FUBAR, another military throwback that defined so much of their existence as a shattered family. Then John had proceeded to give him the full list of instructions, steadfastly ignoring the trembling of his son's hands that Dean was desperately trying to hide. They never spoke of it again, and Dean almost had himself convinced that the whole conversation was simply a moment of unusual fear and over-reaction on his father's part.

On the side of the highway outside of Kansas City, Dean's hands trembled again as he took the envelope. He looked his father straight in the eye, knowing that there was a good chance he would never see him again, and silently gave his promise to protect his baby brother with everything that he had in him.

John gave him an encouraging small smile, clasping his shoulder tightly with desperate and hopefully reassuring affection, before turning his gaze briefly towards his still smoldering and petulant youngest. He frowned for a moment, and then strode purposely over to the passenger side of the car and leaned into the open window slightly.

Dean had wanted to scream in protest. His very soul yearned to beg his father to stay with them, to not go and do whatever it was that he was planning on if it left his sons orphaned. He wanted to shake the smartass out of his little brother and demand that he make up with their father, to tell Sammy that it could be the last time he ever saw the man he worked so hard to give grief to, but loved deeply nevertheless.

In the end, he did none of those things. His father wouldn't approve, and Dean had his orders. In a life of chaos and ever-changing tempestuous circumstances, their father's orders were his primary means of keeping himself grounded and focused. He couldn't afford to lose that focus. It could mean his brother's life, and were anything ever to happen to Sammy, Dean would never be able to live with the consequences.

Knowing that his father would not have executed that particular plan without significant cause, and also knowing that his first priority was to protect Sam from whatever ugliness that he could, he kept their father's dangerous intentions to himself.

"Sammy, you mind your brother. Do _exactly_ what he tells you to. Y'hear me?"

At his father's gruff and insistent summons, Sam lifted his head long enough to lock glares with the man before grudgingly nodding his head.

"Samuel," his father insisted, demanding a firmer acquiescence.

Sam refused to look at his father further, digging his long fingers into the fabric of his worn jeans. But he knew better than to refuse to respond to that tone.

"Yes, sir."

It was delivered with a poisonous undercurrent but, at this point, John would take what he could get. Surrendering to an ill advised moment of weakness, John reached out his hand towards Sammy's face, painfully ignoring the slight flinch from his child. With unaccustomed gentleness, John used his calloused thumb to softly stroke Sam's cheek. Sam's eyes shot over to him, the hostility and petulance replaced by a slight twinge of fear over the unusual affection.

Before Sam could say anything that would break John's heart and slow him down, he returned to the driver's side window and focused on Dean again, needing his oldest to step up once more, like he always had.

"Watch after your brother, Boy." The sharp order softened slightly by the light pat on Dean's shoulder.

"Yes, sir," he responded strongly. "You know I will."

John nodded slightly and reluctantly released his hold on his eldest child. Throwing one more sad glance at Sam, he squared his jaw.

"Be careful, boys." And with that, he was gone.

Dean watched, with an increasingly painful clawing at his chest, as John ran back to his truck and took off for parts unknown.

Holding his breath as he waited for the last possible sight of the black pickup in the distance, he willed himself to keep his composure for his brother's sake even as he fingered the edges of the envelope and its life altering contents. When the pickup wasn't even a speck on the horizon anymore, he dropped it into the seat like a hot potato and yanked the atlas out of the glove compartment.


	2. Flight

The Winchester Doomsday Plan, as prophetically devised by John Winchester, was fairly simple to execute.

Ripping open the atlas, Dean methodically planned their eventual destination. Allowing his father's rigid marine conditioning to take over the panic of a deserted son, he focused on orders. They would spend the three days of radio silence at Uncle Bobby's house. After that, he would pack them up again and head for the pre-defined last ditch meeting spot. Two states over, directly east as the crow flew from where they were right now. The first city alphabetically in the state. The first alphabetically listed motel. There they would wait for one week.

If John didn't meet up with them by then, he was dead.

Furiously whipping through the pages and using a slightly shaking finger to trace the route, Dean quickly found the meeting spot. Acton, Indiana. He slammed the atlas shut and shoved it back into the glove compartment, ignoring Sam's increasingly irrate and worried questions.

With the atlas, he also banished the evil envelope, trying to forget that it contained a small bundle of cash, forged paperwork giving Sam and himself new aliases and, especially, the hellishly crisp and definite legal document that made Dean's palms sweat just thinking about it.

A simple one page piece of paper, insidiously innocuous in the stark black text that proclaimed _To All Concerned_ that permanant and legal custody of Samuel John Winchester, a minor child, be granted to Dean Eric Winchester.

Those few words alone were enough to make Dean's stomach churn with tidal waves of acid crashing against each other. As far as he was concerned, the next paragraph explicitly identifying Samuel John Winchester's parents as Mary Elizabeth Winchester, deceased and John Eric Winchester,_ presumed dead_, was a level of psychological torture that he wasn't sure that he could endure and retain his sanity.

He couldn't think about the circumstances that would require him to _officially_ become Sam's guardian.

His mind numb with anxiety, urgency and reflexes took over as Dean floored the accelerator all the way to South Dakota, shaving a full two hours from the trip using driving techniques that would have earned him some quality time with his father's belt if John had caught him, regardless of his nineteen years on Earth.

Since the day he turned eighteen and was technically an adult, Dad had said more than once that if Dean's "little ass wasn't old enough to legally buy itself a beer, it was still young enough to get whipped". If John had yet to make good on that threat, it was most likely because Dean had always tried his damnedest to obey his father without question. It didn't mean that Dad would not do exactly what he said. Truth be told, Dean had real doubt that even the magical alcohol age line would be enough to one day stop his father from handing down a blistering if Dean truly stepped out of line.

Speed was important, but unless there were demons or other manner of evil actually _visible_ in the rearview mirror, Dean was expected to keep his lead foot under control, especially with his kid brother in the car. To his credit, Dean tried, but the Impala's powerful engine, purring like a naughty librarian with her hair down, called to him as if she were a vehicular siren. With his mind warring to keep out unthinkable thoughts, he let loose on the highway, happy to risk an eventual strapping for his especially early arrival if it meant that his father was still around to dole it out.

Sam's adolescent pouting had become annoyingly verbal right around the Nebraska state line and it took every ouce of restraint Dean had in him to refrain from killing his little brother. Normally he would indulgently suffer an episode of one of his brother's teen angst riddled tirades against their father's mandates if it kept the peace between the two of them, but his mood at the moment precluded any possibilty of making light of John's absence.

"Where is Dad going?"

"I don't know, Sam."

"Is it a hunt?"

"I don't know, Sam."

"When is he going to come back?"

"_I don't know, Sam_!"

Dean had not meant to snap at his little brother. Really, he hadn't. But, _damn it_, their father's instructions had him more spooked than than a stray cat in an alley behind a Chinese restaurant. He took his eye off of the road for a second and caught a glimpse of Sammy's strained bitch face, the large round puppy eyes glaring defiantly ahead, but Dean caught the slight shuddering of the boy's small shoulders as he forced back fear.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," Dean soothed quietly. "I really don't know what Dad is doing right now. I wish I did."

Sam whipped his elfin face around to shoot a red hot accusatory glare at his big brother, his hazel eyes smoldering.

"What's in the envelope, Dean? What's FUBAR?"

Gripping the steering wheel with white knuckled intensity, Dean took a deep breath and contemplated the degree of information that he should share with the kid. Long years of experience had proven that Sammy didn't do well with being kept out of the loop, but somehow, deep inside, Dean just couldn't share the whole horrific details with his little brother who, although he would fiercely deny it, was still just a child.

"Dad is going on a hunt that requires a little more caution than normal, Sammy. If we don't hear from him in three days, we have to rendezvous with him someplace else. The envelope will help us do that."

Praying silently in his head, Dean desperately hoped that Sam bought the limited explanation. He shot a glance out of the corner of his eye and saw his brother's brow furrow in contemplation for a few seconds before Sam tilted his head to look at him again.

"Do you know what's in it?"

_Breathe, Dean. Just breathe_.

"I have a pretty good idea."

Technically not a lie, as he had no idea of knowing if there had been any additions since he last saw the vile little thing all those years ago.

He could tell that Sam bought it, the telltale chewing of his bottom lip a curiousity tell, not an annoyed one. Momentarily lulled into a false sense of security, he almost didn't respond quickly enough when Sam's hand shot out to yank open the glove compartment. His stronger, larger hand grabbed Sammy's wrist and pulled the hand back, much like he had done once when Sam was an overcurious four year old who didn't know that the stovetop in their latest temporary home was extremely hot.

"No."

Sam yanked his hand out of his brother's grasp and shot daggers in his direction.

"Why not? I want to see what's in there!"

"And you will," Dean soothed, his own heart hammering in his chest. "I promise, we will open it together if we don't hear from Dad. We owe him that much, Sammy."

Sam didn't respond, but his mouth pulled itself taut in annoyance and he crossed his arms over his chest, refusing to speak any further.

By the time they had reached Bobby's house, the pale pink shades of dawn were just breaking, faintly illuminating the driveway up to the house and casting an eerie shadow over Bobby as he stood in the doorway.

Dean didn't even try to conceive of how his unofficial uncle could surmise the exact moment of their arrival. He had now been going full bore for over 30 hours, his body exhausted and his nerves shot. Absolutely sure that Sam, now pissed off at both of the other Winchesters, his fifteen year old combustable hormones swirling around in his brain, was silently brooding over what he perceived as their gross neglect of his emotional needs.

Dean brought the Impala to a rumbling halt as close to the front door as he dared. With the barest of greetings for the shotgun bearing Bobby, the moody fifteen year old in the passenger seat, bolted from the car and plowed into the house, seeking refuge amongst the dusty familiarity and comfort of the makeshift library.

Dean was unable to even form the words to explain their arrival and it turned out that it was unnecessary. John had called Bobby from the road and explained both the urgency of the visit and the implications of his absence. In silence, Bobby led Dean into the kitchen where the older boy dropped heavily into one of the scarred wooden chairs. Joining him at the table, the older hunter uncorked a bottle of whiskey and poured both of them two full measures to brace them for the long wait for news.

With a wisdom that only came from years of acquaintance with the Winchesters, Bobby didn't even contemplate uttering the words that would suggest sleep for the visibly wrecked young man at his table. He knew that Dean would only sleep when his mind and body united in rebellion against his iron will and forced him down.

A couple of hours into their silent vigil, Bobby stood up from the table, leaving behind the two-thirds full bottle of whiskey behind. It wasn't that he condoned teen drinking as a rule, especially before the sun was completely up, but then again, Dean had never really been young since he first met the boy at age seven. Even then his hazel green eyes reflected the soul of someone much older, his unerringly solicitous manner with which he tended to his little brother far more mature than most adults Bobby knew.

That was not to say that the boy was always responsible. As long as Sammy's safety wasn't in question, Dean had a mischievous streak a mile long. His frequent stays with Bobby were just as likely to result in the older hunter giving the boy a belt of whiskey as a belting in the woodshed behind the house.

Now, as Bobby puttered around his disorganized kitchen pulling out the fixings for Dean's favorite sausage and cheese omelets, he watched the young man out of the corner of his eye. Dean had barely touched his tumbler of liquid fire, his shoulders slumped in exhaustion.

Not for the first time, all Bobby wanted to give the emotionally guarded boy he loved was a hug, but he wasn't willing to chance chipping away at Dean's shaky defenses right now. Lord knew that the boy was going to need all the reserve he could access to get himself and his little brother through this latest hell.

Bobby needn't have bothered with the late breakfast as no one really ate anything. Sam was unwillingly dragged from the dark recesses of the study and simply stared at his plate angrily until Dean finally excused him twenty minutes later. The boys were expected to earn their keep around the house, so Dean washed the dishes and took out the trash. Bobby had a pot of coffee brewing for them when he returned.

"How's he doing?" he asked Dean quietly, motioning towards the study, handing a chipped mug of the dark roast that hunters survived on to the older boy.

Dean took the cup, spinning it slowly between his hands, letting the warmth seep into his cold skin. Because he didn't want to offend Bobby, he took a small sip. For the first time in years his legendary appetite was virtually non-existent and the few bites he managed of the omelet were sitting in his stomach like chunks of lead. The pungent aroma of the coffee assaulted his nostrils as he sipped, and he could actually feel the bile in his stomach churning in anticipation.

"Okay, I guess. He's pissed at me. And Dad. Hell, probably you too," he answered, running his hand over his tired face.

Bobby chuckled humorlessly and crossed the room to fill the water dish for the dog.

"Yeah, I'll bet he is. Boy would try the patience of a saint with his questions. Not that your daddy makes it easy on him."

Dean's eyes flashed angrily for a brief second and Bobby knew he had stepped in it.

"Dad does what he does for a reason," Dean snapped before catching himself.

Bobby held up a hand in surrender, not wanting to fight.

"I know, boy. I didn't mean nothin' by it. I love John like a brother. Just sayin' that your daddy is used to the way you listen to him. It ain't been easy on him to have Sam questioning him all the time. He ain't wired that way."

Dean backed down, taking the peace offering for what it was. He watched as Bobby pulled three battered file folders from the shelf next to the sink and lay them on the table.

"I got some research I could use help on. You up to it?" he asked kindly.

The question earned a snort from Dean. Bobby didn't need a bit of help and they both knew it. He was trying to get Dean's mind off of his father and they both knew that too. Grinning slightly, he nodded and sat back down on the table.

They worked throughout the day and well into the evening. Dean checked on Sam occasionally, but the boy never stirred from his place in the library except to use the bathroom a few times. The offer of dinner was responded to with a curt "Leave me alone," that Dean tolerated only because of the current circumstances. Sam was old enough to not starve to death and he wasn't exactly a bright ray of sunshine-y company lately.

Dean himself had a mostly liquid dinner, nonsensically justifying the six pack as containing enough sustenance for now. After Bobby returned from picking up more supplies in town, they worked together again for almost three hours before Dean noticed the time. He blinked rapidly, shaking the spots from his eyes that came from concentrated reading, and stood up, stretching and pulling the kinks out of his back. He loped into the library, finding his little brother where they had left him. Sam was huddled in his favorite corner of the room, sitting cross legged on a pile of pillows, an enormous leather backed book propped open in his lap.

"Sammy," he called softly. "It's after ten. Time to hit the rack. Go on up and brush your teeth. Lights out in fifteen."

Sam didn't even bother to look up from his book, flipping to the next page and settling himself in further.

"I'm not tired, Dean," he answered, a bit on the snotty side.

The pounding in Dean's head started to thrum again as he anticipated a fight with the kid.

"It wasn't a request, Sammy," he stated more firmly, trying to keep his temper. "You know the rules. Up and at 'em."

"I don't feel like sleeping."

Dean shut his eyes and prayed for patience, reminding himself that if he killed his little brother, he would hardly be keeping his promise to his father to protect the the little shit.

"Then you can lay in bed and think of how much of a crappy, unfair life you have. Either way, you're going to bed. Now move."

Sam sat defiantly quiet, staring at a space on the floor a few feet in front of him, determinedly not moving. Both boys knew he was picking a fight. John's parenting rules may have been few in number, but the ones that he had were non-negotiable. He was a firm believer in a good night's sleep being crucial for the boys' growth and bedtimes were strictly enforced. Dean also knew that his little brother's desire for normalcy meant that he responded better to structure, so he tried to provide that however and whenever he could.

"I'm tired, Sam. I don't want to fight with you about this. If I have to tell Dad that you were giving me shit while he was gone, you know what he'll do."

Sam finally lifted his head and shot daggers at his older sibling. Slapping the book shut, he threw it aside and got to his feet.

"Fine," he spat out, gritting his teeth as he crossed the room to where Dean was standing.

Sam was trying to push past Dean on his way to the staircase when the older boy grabbed him by the arm and jerked him to a halt.

"Are we going to have a problem, Sam?" Dean asked in a perfect impersonation of their father's voice.

"No."

"Good. Then you know better than to treat Uncle Bobby's books like that. Put it away right."

His whole body thrumming with defiance, Sam finally turned back, picking up the book and placing it on the closest shelf. Without another word or a glance in his brother's direction, he bolted for the stairs and stomped up to his room.

Sam was as good as his word. Twice during the night, Dean checked in on him, only to find the boy lying hostilely on his bed, his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the water stained tiles on the ceiling. Dean was too tired to issue another mandate requiring his brother to actually sleep. Sam was in his bed, safe, and for now that was what was important.

In retrospect, it was poor judgment on his part. If he had been less stressed himself, he would have anticipated the temper tantrums that Sam spent the night plotting for the next day.

Day two of their father's radio silence started poorly the minute Sam banged down the stairs and stomped into the kitchen at Bobby's summons to breakfast. Dean had not slept more than an hour total the whole previous night, his subconscious conjuring bloody violent scenarios of his father's death whenever he shut his eyes. In the end he had just opted to stay awake, blearily contemplating the viability of engineering a coffee IV tube.

"I'm not hungry."

Sam's pronouncement was not only downright whiny for a boy of his age but, more importantly, it was positively ungrateful towards his host who had made the blueberry pancakes especially for the cranky teen.

"Tough. You're eating," Dean snapped at him, his patience already scarce from the lack of shut eye.

"I don't like blueberry."

Dean dropped his fork with a loud clang against the side of his plate and scowled.

"Since when?" he asked incredulously, knowing that Bobby had made a special trip to the store that morning to acquire them.

"Since now."

Dean folded his arms on the table and stared daggers at his brother who had the decency to look a bit cowed. Stung, but relatively non-plussed, Bobby poured three small circles of plain batter onto his grill. A few deft flips later, he put the berry free cakes on a plate and swapped it out for the one in front of Sam.

"I can't eat them without strawberry jelly."

Bobby was beginning to get annoyed at the little primadonna at the table, but he knew that Sam had a habit of acting out when he was upset, so he let it go.

"Sorry kiddo. I didn't know. I'll pick some up tomorrow."

Dean picked his fork back up and pointed it menacingly at his little brother.

"Knock this shit off, Sam. You know Dad's rules. You eat what's put in front of you. _Especially_ if it has already been changed once to meet Your Highness' specifications."

Sam's lip curled into a snarl and he crossed his arms.

"Fine. I'll eat them."

Dean glared and then lowered his fork. He should have known better than to think that Sam capitulated that easily, though.

"Just as soon as Uncle Bobby tells us where Dad is." Sam turned his scowl onto the older man and glared heatedly. "I know that you know."

The fleetingly brief flash of guilt across Bobby's face startled Dean and confirmed Sam's suspicion. Dean felt slightly betrayed by the withholding of such critical information, but he just as quickly dismissed it. His dad had his reasons for what he did. Bobby let out a sigh, lifting his omnipresent trucker's hat to scratch uncomfortably at his scalp.

"That ain't my call, Sam. Your Daddy wanted to be the one to tell you boys what this trip was about. I can't do it."

"Can't? Or won't?" Sam growled.

Bobby wasn't about to take any crap from a boy, even if he was John's boy.

"Both. Now mind your tone and eat your breakfast."

Sam shoved his plate away, bumping Dean's coffee cup and sloshing the bitter black liquid onto the old vinyl table.

"Thanks for nothing, _Uncle _Bobby," he snarled sarcastically.

At the end of his patience, Dean threw a dishrag onto the coffee spill and grabbed Sam's discarded plate, throwing the pancakes into the garbage and the plate into the sink.

"Ok, smartass. You're done here. Get back into the library if you can't keep a civil tongue in your mouth."

Sam shoved back his chair, nearly knocking it over.

"_Fine_."

Dean and Bobby watched him stomp back down the hall before resuming their breakfast in silence. Dean had abandoned his own plate and sipped the remains of his coffee, pointedly refraining from looking at his uncle's face.

"I suppose you're mad at me too for keeping your Daddy's secret, then?"

Dean's poker face never slipped as he lowered the mug and shook his head.

"No, sir. If Dad didn't want us to know, then that's that."

Bobby watched Dean take another sip, still not meeting his eyes.

"Horseshit, boy. You're pissed at me alright. I don't blame you. But John knew that if you knew what was going on and where he was, you would run smack into the middle of it. He don't want you boys anywhere near this."

Dean's mask dropped as his face paled and he was suddenly the little boy that Bobby remembered again.

"Uncle Bobby, please. You have to let me help my dad. He's all we got."

Bobby shook his head sadly and cupped the back of Dean's neck.

"No, boy. I can't let you go. It's too dangerous for reasons that you'll understand later. But he's not alone. I promise you."

The hope in the older boy's eyes stung the grizzled hunter like a sharp pain. It was true that John wasn't alone, but Bobby didn't really hold out hope that what they were doing was going to be enough in time. The boys' father might likely make it back, but the chance that it would be without significant physical and/or emotional trauma was very small. And even if everything went well, it would still be rough when he got back once the boys found out the reason for the trip.

The rest of the day passed agonizingly slowly. Dean's worry was starting to show physically and he looked almost sick. It was killing Bobby to see the normally determined boy start to crumble, but he comforted himself with the fact that both Winchester boys were safe in his home for the time being.

Bobby was still trying to be understanding and patient with Sam as the afternoon progressed. It didn't take a genius to see that Dean was beginning to fold under the anxiety over his father's lack of contact and Sam used his brother's unusual quiet to throw caustic glares and comments at the older men as he stomped back and forth through the hallways. As each minute ticked closer to the 72 hour mark, the elder Winchester brother became more and more detached and withdrawn.

Knowing the boys as well as he did, Bobby knew that Dean would eventually shut down until his hand was forced and he was pushed back into action, swinging and steady as a rock. Sam, on the other hand, was almost assuredly going to force a confrontation, usually at his father's expense but with the man himself absent, Bobby wasn't sure whether he would be the object of Sammy's ire or if it would be Dean.

He didn't have to wait long for his answer.

In an attempt to shake Dean out of his funk, Bobby had set him the task of weapons maintenance, the familiar routines and rituals hopefully keeping his mind occupied and off more grisly matters. It was starting to work, he could tell, the fierce concentration on Dean's face relaxing into a more peaceful countenance as he poured oils and deftly disassembled and reassembled gun after gun, practically stroking the deadly objects with a lover's touch.

With the older boy settled, Bobby decided to extend an olive branch to the younger one who hadn't eaten anything of any substance since their arrival the day before. Stepping out into the hallway, he called down to the library.

"Sam! Can you come in here for a minute please?"

Predictably, the ornery little cuss took his own sweet time before he grudgingly stomped into the kitchen.

"What?" he snapped, irritability lacing his recently changed voice.

"Mind your tone, boy." Bobby was already regretting this. "I thought you might want to pick out what we have for dinner since you didn't eat breakfast or lunch."

"I'm not hungry," Sam spat out before turning around to make his way back down the hallway.

Patience gone, Bobby reached out and grabbed the retreating boy by the shoulder, spinning him back around.

"That's enough, Samuel. I know you're still upset, but you're getting to be too old to act this way."

Sam shook Bobby's hand off and stepped away from him.

"Then stop treating me like a child and tell me where my father is!"

At this, Dean looked up from the Glock he was oiling down and shot his brother a sharp glare.

"Stop it, Sammy."

"No! It's not right, Dean. We deserve to know where our own damn father is!"

Sam shot a hateful look at his adopted uncle, one far more sinister and poisonous than Bobby ever dreamed he would see from the boy he loved. Stung, he felt his blood pressure rising.

"We ain't having this conversation again, boy. You mind your manners in my house or else you and I will be taking a trip to the woodshed!"

Sam's face went wild, his shoulders shuddering with suppressed rage.

"YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER!" he screamed at the top of his lungs, sweeping a long thin arm across the table and sending tubes, rags and weapons flying. A bowie knife nicked Dean's arm as it went tumbling down and a rifle spun across the room and crashed into the cabinets, landing on the floor with a sharp clatter as the stock split.

As Sam stood shuddering with rage, the room went deathly quiet.


	3. Frantic

It was Bobby who first notices the trail of blood snaking its way down Dean's right arm.

They had all remained speechless and still, in shocked silence for almost a full minute in the aftermath of Sam's wrath-fueled destruction. Sam was breathing heavily, his eyes darting all over the room in agitation, while Dean just stared down at the ruined gun on the floor as if searching for another reason for it to have landed in that state. When Bobby forced his furious gaze away from the youngest boy, he glanced over to see Dean's reaction and was immediately horrified by the condition of his arm.

"Aw, damnit Dean," he snaps, his growling voice lace with a measure of concern. He makes his way over to the table, ignoring Sam for a moment, and gently takes the bleeding arm in his hand, examining the severity. Dean doesn't protest, doesn't really seem to notice. His eyes, confused and a little bleary, are still staring at the gun on the floor.

"You're gonna need a couple of stitches," he evaluates as he reaches for a clean towel and presses it against the wound. "Hold this on here and keep pressure." He tries to get Dean to acknowledge the command and, when he doesn't, Bobby snaps his fingers in front of Dean's face.

"Hey! You listening? Come on, boy, you know the drill."

Dean's eyes blink rapidly, startled by the snap. He shakes his head a little and realizes what is going on with Bobby and his arm and looks down at the bleeding appendage for the first time. Frowning, he applies pressure, now feeling the stinging pain from the cut. Satisfied, Bobby stands back upright and crosses over to where Sam is still standing, eyes wild and drawing in ragged, heaving breaths.

Bobby's eyes are full fury, his face burning a deep rose red. When he reaches out towards Sam, the boy instinctively flinches, but Bobby manages to grab him by the shoulders and starts to shake him none too gently.

"What the hell were you thinking, Samuel?" he bellows. "You know how dangerous what you just did was? How stupid? How reckless?" Each question is punctuated by another hard shake and Sam feels his teeth smashing together, his head lolling from front to back like a rag doll.

"Your brother's been hurt!" _Shake_ "He could have been killed!" _Shake _"Do you even care that.."

"Bobby!" Dean yells out, interupting the tirade.

Bobby stops the shaking and turns to look at Dean. The older boy is still nursing his injured arm, the blood starting to soak through the thin kitchen towel. Dean's face is pleading with him.

"Stop," he practically whispers.

The older hunter looks away from Dean and back over to Sam. John's younger boy has gone pale, looking for all the world like a frightened animal, fat tears streaming down his face.

_Shit_

Bobby releases the boy who immediately backs away from him in fear and the older man's guilt raises up a notch. He runs a hand over his bearded face, realizing that he is in no condition to fairly deal with Sam at this moment. What's more, Dean needs first aid and that is more important.

"Sam, you are going to take yourself up to your room and out of my sight while I help your brother. We're not going to do this until I'm sure that I won't wring your little neck."

Sam's breathing hitches and he nods shakily, darting an occasional glance over to his injured brother who is very clearly not looking at him. Skittish, he backs up closer to the wall when Bobby levels another glare in his direction.

"But make no mistake, young man. When I'm done here, I'm coming up to get you and take you out back. And then, you and me, we're gonna dance, ya hear?"

Sam murmers a barely audible "yes, sir", shooting one last desperate look at his brother and then bolting for the stairs.

Dean picks up his head and watches Sam flee like a startled deer. His first instinct is to run after him and offer comfort, but he reminds himself that Sam really screwed the pooch this time.

High on the list of the Winchester Commandments, second only to _Honor Thy Father and Hunter,_ is _Honor Thy Weapons of Lethal Capability._

For a brief second, Dean is grateful that his father was not around to see Sammy's little display. If he had, John would have whipped Sam's skin clean off before the first drop of blood fell from Dean's arm. He doesn't know if Sam is feeling particularly grateful for that little mercy right about now but, Lord knows, he should be.

He doesn't say anything while Bobby tends to his arm. The shot to numb the area is probably not necessary. He's already feeling pretty numb as a whole. Bobby doesn't say much either as he cleans and stitches and snips, gently bandaging the wound to avoid inflicting further pain.

He watches with almost clinical disinterest as Bobby stands back up, putting away all of the medical supplies into the kit that would make most paramedics jealous. When he is finished with that, he reaches into the fridge and pulls out a bottle of Pepsi and sets in down in front of Dean, taking a seat in the chair next to him.

"The sugar will help," he comments kindly.

"Thanks," Dean mutters quietly, settling back into the chair and closing his eyes for a minute. They both know that he is not just talking about the soda.

"Y'okay?"

Dean opens his eyes back up and sees Bobby's concerned face. The enraged man of earlier is gone leaving behind just the uncle they have known most of their lives.

"Yeah," he sighs, rubbing his face with the palm of his uninjured arm. "Peachy."

Bobby nods and then slaps his knees before standing up again. "Alright then. Just stay here and take'er easy. I'm gonna go get your brother and take him out back for a little chat."

Bobby is halfway out of the kitchen when a quiet but firm voice stops him.

"No."

He turns back around and sees that Dean is staring at him with John's face. A very calm but very determined face that brooks no refusal.

"Excuse me?"

Dean stands up from the table and slowly approaches him. He's not acting confrontationally, but Bobby keeps his guard up just the same. Dean has already grown into being someone that he wouldn't mess with if the boy is in a bad way.

"No," Dean repeats as quietly and calmly as before.

He shakes his head, a little confused at Dean's behavior. Surely even Dean wouldn't think to excuse Sam's behavior? The older brother has been known to ask for leniency when it came to the younger boy getting punished, but he's never tried to talk anyone out of it outright before.

"Dean, I'm not gonna let Sam off the hook for this one," he states firmly, so that there is no mistake what the intentions are. "He's gotta know that he can't endanger anyone just because his feelin's are hurt."

"I know that," Dean replies softly, his eyes sad. "He deserves a whipping."

Bobby frowns in confusion. "Okay, then." But as he turns back around to head to the stairs, he's stopped again by the quiet voice.

"But I'll be the one giving it to him."

A look of comprehension dawns over Bobby's face and, for the first time in a while, it renders him speechless. Dean takes the opportunity of silence to continue his quiet announcement.

"I'm guessing that if you know what all this is about, you know that my dad left provisions that give me custody of Sam if he doesn't come back."

It's not a question, it's a statement. One that Bobby can't deny truthfully, so he settles for nodding his head, remaining silent so that Dean can continue.

Seeing no denial of the fact, Dean nods sadly. "So, if anyone is going to be busting the kid's ass around here, it's gonna be me this time.

Bobby frowns at the painful resignation on Dean's face. He knows what this is going to cost the older boy. He has spent his entire life protecting Sam from pain and harm and now, here he is, having to embrace the idea that he himself is going to have to make his little brother cry. Even if it is for his own good, it doesn't make it any less painful.

"Dean, you don't have to do this," Bobby offers comfortingly. "It aint' gonna be easy, kid."

"Yeah, I know." Dean sighs sadly and rubs his hand over his face again. Bobby can hear the friction of the hand moving over the unshaven scruff. "You think I don't see how it kills my dad when he has to do it?"

He throws another pained look in Bobby's direction, taking comfort from the compassion that he sees there. Bobby doesn't try to talk him out of it. Nor does he comment on the fact that Dean's eyes are sparkling with unshed tears.

"I know that there's a good chance that my dad isn't coming back, Bobby. From now on, Sam needs to know that he can always count on me for anything. Including this."

Bobby feels his own breath hitching and he nods sadly, encouraging Dean to do what he feels he must. In that moment, as he watches Dean square his shoulders, he can almost see the older boy shed the tiny remainder of his shattered innocence.

As Dean slowly walks to the stairs, like a man on his way to the gallows, it also doesn't escape either of the men's notice that Dean has dropped the "uncle" from Bobby's name, taking his place as a peer of the hunter now, instead of just a boy.

And damnit if that doesn't just break Bobby's heart in two.

There are a lot of things that Dean had not wanted to do in life. Going to kindergarten was a bad memory. Telling Sam that Daddy wasn't going to be home for his six birthday had sucked loads. Leaving the beautiful and accommodating Jennifer Ellis behind in Billings had actually been physically painful.

But, he was pretty sure that having to take a belt to his little brother was going to place right up there alongside spitting in his father's face and vandalizing his mother's (empty) grave on the list of things he never wants to do. Period.

Unfortunately, like so many other times, he isn't really given a choice.

On the slow walk up the stairs, he thinks of all the times that he has covered for his brother's misbehavior, usually taking a harsher beating himself to save Sammy from one. Also, it's not as if he has never hit Sam before, either.

Besides all of the father sponsored sparring matches that more often than not resulted in one or both of them sporting bruises, there were, of course, the usual big brother smacking down little brother fights. To Sam's credit, he has always been a tough little guy who could more than hold his own.

He had even given Sam one real honest to God spanking over the years. Of course he was only eight to Sam's four and, remembering that Daddy had spanked him for using a bad word, he had given a foul mouthed Sammy's little butt four solid smacks before John had returned to a squalling pre-schooler and a confused big brother who didn't understand why Daddy was mad at him.

Both boys slept on their stomachs that night and Dean quickly learned the repercussions of handing down discipline to his little brother without consent.

Since then, Dean had never been of a mind to raise a disciplining hand to his little brother even after John had told him that it was allowed. Their father was around often enough to catch most of the misbehavior and, when he wasn't, Dean narc'ed on Sammy later. It had always been the threat of "When Dad comes home..." And Dad had never disappointed.

But Dean realized, as he unwillingly plodded up the stairs, things had changed. "When Dad comes home..." had turned into a harsh acknowledgement of "_If_Dad comes home.." and Dean just couldn't leave Sammy twisting in the wind anymore.

He had wallowed in his own worry and grief long enough while his little brother was emotionally drowning until Sammy had finally snapped and done something really really stupid. As much as he may have wanted to step back and let Bobby be the bad guy, he knew that he couldn't. Sam was _his_responsibility and it was time for Dean to man up.

As he slowly approached the bedroom door, he took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. After this was all over, Sammy might be the one sporting a red behind, but Dean knew that the next few minutes would be punishment for both of them. Strengthening his resolved, he turned the doorknob and firmly strode into the room.

Sammy was sitting on the edge of his bed, head bent, his unruly hair hanging in his eyes. His shoulders were trembling and it nearly broke Dean's heart how scared the boy looked. Dean swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat at the sight.

"Sammy?" he called out gently.

Sam's head shot up and the look of gratitude that shone in his eyes when he saw that it was his big brother and not his uncle ripped Dean's heart into a million pieces. Springing up from the bed, Sammy flew at him and crashed into his chest, his fingers gripping Dean's shirt so tightly the cotton almost gave way.

"Dean, m'sorry! I didn't mean to! I wasn't trying to hurt you...I wasn't thinking. Please don't hate me...please. M'sorry..m'sorry_sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry_..."

Dean's chest clenched with pain as he wrapped strong arms around his little brother and held as tightly as he could. He buried his face into Sammy's hair and made soft shushing noises as he gently rubbed the shivering back, hot fat tears running down his own cheeks as he heard Sam sobbing and choking on snot.

He felt like kicking himself again for letting it get this far. Sammy's emotions always ran high and he would often work himself up into a frenzy before exploding. Normally this happened during fights with their dad, and then John would spank him and he would be calm again. When Dad wasn't around, Dean would keep Sammy on an even keel with the usual big brother teasing and jibes and beat downs, allowing Sam to blow off a little steam as he retaliated.

But Big Brother had fallen down hard on the job this time, mired in his own misery and despair until Sam had no choice but to make them hear his pain. And didn't that just make Dean feel even more like a prized shit. Offering what comfort he could, he let Sam cry for another few minutes, waiting until the frantic sobs slowed down before pushing him back a little and gently lifting up his face.

"It's okay, Sammy. I'm okay."

Seeing Sam's watery eyes immediately turn towards his injured arm, Dean cupped the back of Sam's neck soothingly as he showed him the small bandage that didn't look nearly as frightening as the bleeding wound had.

"It's just a little scratch."

Sam turned on the power of his sad little doe eyes in full force, nearly knocking Dean over with their intensity. The younger boy just stared at him until he croaked out a little hiccup, bringing Dean to his knees as he pulled Sam into another fierce embrace.

Sam burrowed his head into the crook of Dean's neck and sobbed quietly for a couple of minutes. Seeing Dean's arm ripped and bleeding because of him had made the boy's gut clench painfully in guilt. He had just been so frustrated and he was so so tired, his mind warring in itself, the thoughts jumbled and confused and crushing.

Dean's familiar comforting scent was soothing, the arms around him protective and strong, and Sam was just a mixed up kid who couldn't remember the last time he had told his dad that he loved him...

Dean held him for a bit more, patient until the frantic sobs and shakes subsided. He would have happily just left it at that if Sammy's behavior hadn't been so dangerous. Sighing deeply, he pushed Sam away again and gave him a compassionate but firm look. Sam sniffled and swallowed hard. He knew it was time.

"I guess I have to go down to Uncle Bobby now, don't I?" he asked quietly.

"No, Sammy, you don't," Dean answered sadly, putting an arm around Sam's thin shoulders and slowly leading him towards the bed.

Sam frowned in confusion, not understanding. Surely he wouldn't be allowed to get away with that kind of tantrum?

"Dean?"

When they got to the end of the bed, Dean let go of him, pursing his lips together, his hazel green eyes sad. As he slowly raised his hands to his belt buckle, Sam finally got the picture and tears sprang forth unbidden again when he realized what was about to happen.

"No, Dean, please. Not you, _please_," Sam whispered, crushing his brother's heart with his plaintive cries. It was all too much.

Dean gritted his teeth, determined to see it done, even as his stomach roiled pain. He removed his belt and folded it over, like his dad had done a million times. Gently, but firmly he pulled Sam closer to him as he sat down on the edge of the bed. Sam continued to let out little whimpers of pain and protest, but he didn't pull away

Dean pulled him directly to his side, giving the boy a pointed look, and Sam knew what he was implying. With shaking hands, he fumbled as he unbuttoned his jeans and slowly unzipped them. Dean wasn't barking orders like Dad would have. His big brother merely sat there and gave a slight nod of encouragement, lessening the sting of having to push his jeans down his shivering legs.

With Sammy's pants lowered, Dean gently took him by the wrist and eased him down across his lap. He had turned slightly sideways so that Sammy's upper body could rest as comfortably as possible on the bed. Seeing his brother's slight form so vulnerable threatened to undo him, so he took a quick second to breathe deeply and gather his wits.

Without warning, he felt Sam's body shudder briefly before Sam slowly lifted his hips. Realization dawned on him and he felt sick from it knowing that his hesitation had convinced Sammy that this was going to be a bare bottom whipping and his little brother was obeying by making it easier for Dean to lower his briefs.

Dean choked on the bile in his throat at the idea. It wasn't as if he had never seen Sam's bare butt before. He had helped change diapers, bathed him and helped him get dressed for years. In the close quarters of seedy motel rooms where beds were often shared, let alone rooms, two brothers naturally had little reservations about walking around in the buff. Just a couple of weeks ago in Texas they had gone skinny dipping in a pond behind the cabin they were squatting in, just as soon as their dad had deemed it safe enough to go into and escape the blistering August heat for a few minutes.

So it wasn't as if there was any preciousness between them about nudity. But the thought of forcing his little brother into that much vulnernability and humiliation was unbearable. Sammy's thin little threadbare briefs would hardly protect his behind from the wicked sting of the belt, but they might just protect his dignity a little.

Dean reached out and gently pushed Sam's hips back down to his lap. "Not like that, little brother. Not ever."

Sam let out a strangled little cry of gratitude, reaching forward to grip huge handfuls of the quilt in preparation. Dean used his left arm to anchor Sammy a little closer to his body, taking deep fortifying breaths as he readied himself to cross a line from which there was no return. Forcing himself, he lifted the belt into the air and brought it down hard with a sharp _thwack!_

Sammy yelped, his body jerking in reflex. Dean held him tightly and brought the belt crashing down again, trying to not be sick when he saw Sam bury his face into the quilt and start to sob. Under the thin briefs, Dean could see ugly red welts starting to blossom and his heart lurched with the knowledge that he was causing this. He gained new respect for his dad. How had the man managed to do this and not lose his mind?

Dean blocked out any other thought than just getting the job done. His slowness and hesitation weren't helping either one of them. He raised and lowered the belt swiftly, getting into a rhythm, working his way methodically down Sam's backside from the center of his behind all the way down to mid thigh. Sam jerked and wiggled, desperate to get away from the punishing blows, his choking cries and little mewling sounds between _ow_s and _please_s turning Dean's heart into hamburger.

Dean pulled him in tighter and continued with the trek back up Sam's legs, his bandaged arm wielding the belt with force, the thin loop of leather leaving angry ladder lines across the back of Sammy's thighs. Sam kicked his legs and howled, begging Dean to stop and _damnit _he wanted to, he really really did. This was already easily the worst whipping Sam had ever received and the fact that Dean was the one giving it almost suffocated both of the boys.

A particularly harsh swat branded Sam against an already existing welt and he arched his back and yelled "I'm sorry! Dean, _please_, I'm sorry!" his chest heaving with sobs.

Dean steeled his heart and pushed him back into the quilt, knowing that they weren't quite done yet. He continued the circuit back up to Sammy's rear end, watching in horror as the pale skin now blazed in blistering crimson.

"I know, Sammy. We're almost done."

When he felt Sam fall limp over his lap and heard him steadily wail, he knew that they had come near the end. He laid down ten more blazing swats directly onto Sammy's sensitive sit spots, stopping when he heard his little brother whimpering words into the quilt now jammed in his mouth.

Leaning over to listen more carefully, his stomach almost completely rebelled at what he heard. Sammy had his eyes clenched shut, his hands white knuckling the quilt, whispering over and over again "I want my dad..I want my dad..I want my dad..."

Nauseous, Dean threw the belt on the floor as if it were a poisonous snake. He reached out and grabbed Sammy under the arms, turning him around and pulling the younger boy up and crushing him to his chest, anguished tears flowing down his own cheeks.

"So do I, little brother. So do I."

Sam howled into Dean's shoulder, long deep gasps for air that left him choking and sputtering. Desperately, Dean tried to soothe with gentle caresses and soft hushed sounds, rocking his brother like he had when Sammy was just a little guy.

The pressure on his freshly spanked behind became too much for Sam to tolerate and he slid down between Dean's legs and onto his knees, pushing his anguished face into Dean's stomach and clinging to his big brother like a lifeline. Dean held onto him tightly, one hand running soothingly through Sam's mop of hair, the other rubbing slow easy circles on the younger boy's back.

Neither of them spoke for a few minutes. Dean was mentally giving himself another beating for lifting his hand to his little brother. Sam might never forgive him for this and, honestly, Dean wouldn't blame him. He was trying and failing at finding the words to bring comfort when Sam finally spoke.

"Dad's not coming back, is he?"

Dean inhaled sharply and froze. His fears being brought into the ugly open in his brother's whispering, scared voice.

"Don't, Sammy. Don't say that."

"It's true, though. Isn't it?" Sam sniffled and buried his face further into Dean's shirt. "You wouldn't have done this if you thought he was coming back."

_Shit_

Dean reached down and cupped Sam's cheeks in his hands, trying with all of his might to put a convincing game face on.

"You listen to me, Sammy, and listen good. Dad _is _going to come back. Y'hear me? I don't want to hear you saying that shit."

Sam's voice was tiny and watery when he mumbled a quiet "Sorry."

The look of anguish on the boy's face was destroying every ounce of belief that Dean was desperately clinging to. Sam didn't believe him, _couldn't _believe him and when Dean realized why, he felt physically sick again. Dad may be a bit of a hardass, an unrelenting drill sergeant and somewhat absentee, but he was also the only parent that Sammy had ever known.

The closest Sam had ever been to experiencing a mother's touch was the times when Dean tried to emmulate her during fevers and skinned knees. And wasn't that just sad? Even at Dean's darkest times of longing for his Dad's return, he had the memories of soft arms and jasmine perfume, of lullabies and tomato rice soup.

Sammy had always had to make do with the gruff, masculine affection of a man who found overt displays of affection hard. Sure Dad would hug them, ruffle their hair, pat them on the back affectionately, but only with Sammy would he drop his guard and occasionally cuddle and indulge.

Dean had never begrudged his little brother the extra affection. He was older and proud of the way his father treated him as a peer when it came to most things. But now, in the quiet of their shared bedroom at Bobby's house, Dean was laid bare by the realization that if John Winchester died, Dean would lose his mentor, his hero, and his Dad, but Sam would lose his _Daddy_.

Struggling to give comfort, Dean gripped the back of Sam's neck and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"You'll always have me, kiddo. I promise I will always be here for you."

Cold comfort it may be, but it was all he had to offer and the offer was genuine. But Sam didn't seem to take it at the value in which it was given if the little snort of disbelief was anything to go by.

"For now," Sam muttered sadly. "You'll do it too, Dean. If Dad doesn't come home, you'll go off and try to get the thing that got him. And then I'll have no one."

_Aw, Sammy_

Dean took Sam's face in his hand and held it firmly, fire in his eyes with determination and honesty.

"No, Sam. No. Not gonna happen. I'm not leaving you. No matter what happens, you come first, y'hear me?"

Tears started to fall down Sam's pale cheeks again, and the pitiful hopeful look he gave his big brother threatened to undo Dean completely. Dean held his stare until he was fairly sure that Sam believed him and the choked sob of gratitude that came out of the younger boy's mouth humbled him with its intensity.

The fabric of Dean's shirt was soaked through to his skin where Sammy's messy brown mop rested in the crook of his neck. His little brother's tears were still falling, albeit down to a trickle from the full on cascade earlier. Dean kept his arms wrapped securely around the younger boy, willing comfort into Sam with just the strength of his embrace. For a few minutes the only sounds were an occasional sniffle or hiccup from the kid, followed by Dean's soft shushing sounds as the embrace became tighter for a few seconds.

There may even have been an occasional rocking motion. _So what of it? Shut up. This was his baby brother!_

It had taken Dean quite a while to coax Sam up off of the floor, his little brother clinging to him like a monkey. Sam's legs had gooseflesh from their nudity, the areas where they weren't burning red raw from the belt shivering from the fan working overtime on an unusually cool evening.

Dean had helped him take off his shoes and socks, pushing his jeans off and out of the way. Gently he had held Sam's unsure and hurting frame as he gingerly stepped into a pair of sleep pants. When Sam had pulled off his dirty T-shirt, wet with sweat and tears and snot, Dean had pulled out their dad's faded USMC shirt that Sammy would wear when feeling particularly lonely for his father. Once Sam had changed, the older brother had settled himself on the bed, back propped up against the headboard, Sam snuggled into his side, his mop of brown curls nestled against his shoulder.

Sammy seemed to be in no hurry to move judging from the strength of his grip on Dean's shirt and Dean was of no mind to make him. He settled his back more firmly against the headboard to provide better support for both of them and crossed one ankle over the other, in the process shifting Sammy more onto his hip to take the pressure off of his sore behind.

Sam burrowed a little more closely against Dean's chest and let out shuddering sigh, closing his eyes and letting his brother's solid warmth soothe him. The boy was physically and emotionally spent, content to just lie there for the rest of the night in his brother's embrace, shutting out the potential horror of what the very near future could hold for them.

And that is exactly what he would have done if his traitorous empty stomach hadn't chosen that moment to let out a harsh and reverberating growl. Grimacing, Sam moved his hand from where it had been laying on Dean's chest, feeling the comforting security of his big brother's steady heartbeat, to press it against his stomach in the hopes of suppressing any more signs of displeasure from the cranky organ.

It was a futile hope as almost immediately, it growled again, this time with even more intensity, and even as Sam scowled at his own body's uncooperative nature, he felt Dean start to shake with quiet laughter.

"Someone's hungry. It's no wonder, Sammy. You've hardly eaten anything since we got here."

Sam refused to be ruled by his body and he pressed himself more firmly into Dean's side, clearly indicating his intention to remain exactly where he was. Dean allowed it for another minute, having correctly guessed that Sam's reluctance to eat had more to do with not wanting to see Uncle Bobby than not wanting to actually eat something. He couldn't blame the boy. Dean had never seen Bobby that angry before either and definitely not directed at one of them.

Patting Sammy on the back, Dean began to shift them towards the edge of the bed.

"Come on, little brother. Let's get you some calories."

Stubbornly obstinant, Sam dug his heels into the bed, going limp to make himself a not insignificant deadweight in his brother's arms. Dean would have been more annoyed with Sammy's refusal to move if the kid hadn't seen fit to break his heart by clutching on tightly to the amulet hanging from Dean's neck. The pull choked him for a second until he gave into it, remembering all the nights that Sam had clung to it while waiting for their dad to come home and punish him for some misbehavior.

But Sam was growing up and he had to learn to face up to his mistakes, so Dean gently prised his little brother's fingers off of his necklace and pulled the resisting teen up to a standing position.

"Deeeaaann," Sam whined. "I don't want to go down there."

The elder Winchester gave the boy a sympathetic smile as he used his thumbs to wipe away the last remnants of tears from Sammy's face. Cupping one hand around the back of Sam's neck, Dean used his other hand to fondly brush the unruly chestnut locks out of Sammy's eyes.

"I know you don't, kiddo. But you need to apologize to Uncle Bobby. He's taken a lot of crap from you lately and you really blew it earlier."

Sam winced, knowing that it was true. Ducking his head, he hugged himself and fidgeted, looking for all the world like a nervous little boy, Which, Dean amusingly surmised, was very close to the literal truth. Dean gave Sam's neck a soft squeeze and then started for the door, motioning for Sam to follow him.

"Come on, Sammy. It'll be okay."

Reluctantly, Sam began to slowly follow him down the stairs and into the kitchen where they saw Bobby slicing onions at the counter. Like a skittish colt, Sam slid further behind his brother's taller form when the older hunter looked up to acknowledge their entrance.

"Boys."

Bobby's face was an unreadable mask, making it harder for Sam to approach him. He wasn't sure what reception he would get, the image of the gruff but lovable uncle of his childhood warring with that of the infuriated man of earlier. Dean turned, giving Sam an encouraging look and gently nudged him closer. The older brother watched with pride as the boy took a few deep breaths and squared his shoulders.

"Uncle Bobby?"

"Yes, Sam?" Bobby put the knife down and turned to fully face them. He folded his arms across his chest and gave Sam a stern frown. To Sam's credit, he only faltered for a brief second before continuing.

"I..I am really really sorry about the gun. It was stupid and reckless and I know better." Sam started to tremble slightly as his emotions began to swirl again and was immediately comforted by Dean's hand on his back encouraging him to continue.

"I..I won't ever disrespect a weapon like that again and...and..if you still think I need to go out to the woodshed, I'm ready."

Bobby held his firm stance as long as he could in the face of Sam's big sad doe eyes and shivering frame. He wouldn't tell the boy that the walls in his house were thin enough so that he easily heard the severity of Dean's disciplining, or that the very last thing he wanted to do at this moment was give the boy another whipping on top of what he had already taken. Not to mention the fact that Dean looked as if he might cheerfully and unrepentantly commit murder if Bobby even thought about laying a hand on his kid brother right about now.

He took a deep breath, as if in indulgent contemplation, before relaxing his posture and propping his hands on the counter.

"Seems to me that no one needs to get whupped twice for the same offense, boy. Your brother's already done right by you, so we don't need me taking you anywhere."

Sam visibly relaxed and let out a low, unsteady breath that he had been holding in. Bobby gave him a small smile before pointing a stern finger at him.

"_But! _Tomorrow, you owe me a 5,000 word essay on proper gun handling and maintenance. And you're gonna be doing some chores around here for awhile to pay for that gun!"

Sam went wide eyed and vigorously nodded, eager to agree to anything that didn't involved additional scorching to his already thoroughly roasted rump.

"Yes, sir."

Smiling broadly, Dean clapped him on the shoulder and pushed him further into the room.

"Okay. Well, now that we have that settled, let's get you fed, kiddo. Let's help Uncle Bobby put dinner on the table."

Sam nodded before surprising the other two men by slowly and shyly approaching Bobby who was back to work at his onions.

"Uncle Bobby?"

Bobby turned around, a concerned look on his face from the quiet insecure sound of Sam's voice. "Yeah, Sam? What is it, boy? Are you alright?"

Sam hesitated for just a quick moment before putting his arms around Bobby, pressing his face into the older man's shoulder. Bobby blinked at the unexpected affection, automatically wrapping Sam's thin frame into a solid embrace.

"Thank you for remembering about the blueberries."

Sam's voice was muffled by Bobby's shirt, but the soft words damn near brought the older man to his knees. He tightened his grip on the boy for a few seconds before gruffly clearing his throat.

"You're welcome, boy."

He held Sam for a minute before the boy pulled away, his face pink from blushing and his teenaged pride already pushed to the limit. He gave his uncle a small but dimpled smile looking for all the world like the tiny boy that Bobby first remembered meeting all of those years ago.

Bobby cleared his throat roughly, knowing that if Sam continued to look at him that way, he would hand over the keys to his house, his business and anything else the boy wanted just to keep him smiling like that. Not wanting to risk his reputation as a hardass, he gently took Sam by the shoulder and spun him around.

"Dinner won't be for another 20 or so. You can go spend that time with your nose in the corner and think about what happened today. Y'hear me?"

Sam groaned and, next time him, Dean shot him a sympathetic look. Growing up they had both hated corner time at Bobby's and at Pastor Jim's. It was a punishment that their dad had never employed and it never failed to make them feel like chastised three year olds.

Sam sighed deeply and reluctantly started for the corner nearest the door. "Yes, sir."

Dean watched with mild amusement as Sam shuffled towards the wall and slumped against the peeling wallpaper, his forehead pressed into the corner. Taking pity on the boy, he pulled some slices of individually wrapped cheese out of the fridge and pressed them into Sammy's hand. His little brother gave him a grateful smile as he ruffled his hair.

As Bobby and Dean finished the dinner preparations, both were silently amused by the sight of the usually obstinate fifteen year old contentedly munching on cheese while sneaking an occasional rub to his rear end.

For just a few minutes, they could think about other things, and that was okay by them.


	4. Formulate

At fifteen, Sam Winchester had already begun to develop healthier eating habits than either his father or brother cared to embrace. Not that John had never put forth any effort to providing nutritious meals to his growing boys, but with him away for large swathes of time, canned pastas and microwavable insta-meals were often the saviors of a big brother who didn't really know how to cook.

And while Dean could still happily snorkel his way through a triple bacon cheeseburger without a care in the world, Sam might have normally balked at having to tuck into a plate of Uncle Bobby's homemade meatloaf, mashed potatoes and onion gravy, thick and shiny with fat swimming on the top. But, then again, he normally didn't spend two days intentionally starving himself either, which is why his brother and surrogate uncle earned entertainment from watching the picky teen pounce on his dinner plate like he didn't know where his next meal was coming from.

The meal could have been more awkward than it was. The tension in the air was considerably clearer, but the elephant was still in the room as the three occupants kept stealing surreptitious glances at the clock as it ticked away the precious minutes of the 72 hour window. And Sam could have been more uncomfortable than he was if his big brother hadn't been considerate enough to put a small throw pillow from the sofa on Sam's chair for him to sit on during the meal.

The kind gesture wasn't lost on any of them either. Clearly indicating that, while Dean may have crossed the line over to disciplinarian, he was still first and foremost Sammy's big brother. Their father would never have allowed such a comfort after a punishment, but big brothers obviously got to change those rules.

Sammy had plowed through half of his dinner, barely stopping to take a breath until his eyes began to droop with exhaustion. Dean and Bobby, while sharing an amused look, refrained from teasing the tired boy until they genuinely feared that he might face-plant into his potatoes. It was only then that Dean rose from the table and gently tugged Sam into a standing position.

"Come on, slugger. Let's hit the sack," he said affectionately, encircling Sam's shoulders with a strong arm.

Sam didn't protest, his body and eyes heavy with drowsiness. Muttering a quiet thank you to his uncle for dinner, he tucked his head into his big brother's shoulder and allowed Dean to lead him upstairs back to the bedroom. Once inside, Dean decided to let Sam head straight into bed without brushing his teeth. One night wouldn't hurt the kid when he was exhausted and had endured such a rough day.

Thankfully Sam was already in his pajamas, so it was just a matter of pulling the comforter down and gently pushing the kid into the bed. Sam complied sleepily, though he very determinedly kept a tight grip on Dean's T-shirt. Dean got the message loud and clear.

_Don't leave_

"I'm not going anywhere, kiddo," he soothed quietly, as he slipped into the bed behind Sam.

His strong arms wrapped comfortingly around Sam's smaller frame, he hummed quietly above Sammy's ear until the boy's breathing evened out. The soft gentle snores of his little brother relaxed Dean as well, and it was only a matter of a few minutes before he too was sleeping.

A few stolen hours of sorely needed sleep did wonders for the large raccoon circles around Dean's eyes, Bobby noticed the next morning. Although he had heard the older Winchester brother pacing around their small shared room during the night, he clearly had been able to rest a little.

After inhaling half a pot of strong coffee, the uncle in Bobby had demanded that Dean eat a little something to protect his stomach lining from the caffeinated acid, grumpily acknowledging the eventual consumption of one thick pancake and steadfastly ignoring the three remaining on Dean's plate.

Halfway through the meal of the older hunters, Sam shuffled into the kitchen, brown curls wildly tousled from sleep and yawning hugely. He gifted Bobby with a shy smile as a plate of blueberry cakes was placed on the table in front of him and both of the older men steadfastly ignored his motions when he shuffled his chair a bit closer to Dean's than he normally would have allowed.

Dean reached up and cupped the back of Sam's neck briefly, neither boy uttering a sound. Lowering his hand he reached for the orange juice and poured Sam a glass, shooting Bobby a glare as if challenging him to comment on the overt coddling.

Sam's presence at the table, calm and healthy, seemed to help Dean's overall composure even as the clock ticked. With little brother being little brother again, Bobby notice that Dean was at least pretending to keep his anxiety in check.

Instead of sneaking stress riddled glances at his wristwatch every 30 seconds, Dean kept his hands and attention busy by fussing over Sam. Even going so far as to pour a maple syrup "moat" around his pancake tower, just like John did to this day for his youngest.

Sam dove into his pancakes like a starving child, another growth spurt clearly on the way, and Dean steadfastly refused to acknowledge the thought that his little brother might be catching up to his own 6'1" frame in the not too distant future. The one time that John had thought to comment on Sammy's faster than average growth, Dean had plugged his ears, refusing to imagine the horror of a baby brother taller than himself.

With indulgent patience, he refilled Sammy's juice glass twice and repeatedly refused the boy's hopeful pleas for coffee. John's food rules were not non-existent and, like Dean had been in the not too distant past, Sam was not allowed coffee or large quantities of sugary, caffeinated soft drinks.

Of course, while previously in charge, Dean had broken the soda rule on several occasions, but now that he was assuming a new level of care for his brother, he felt himself compelled to follow his father's instructions to the letter. Sam pouted, but Dean was unmoved and merely gave his little brother's half finished plate a pointed look.

"After you finish, I want you to go take a shower, brush your teeth and get dressed. You have an essay to write for Uncle Bobby." he said sternly.

Sam picked up his fork and half halfheartedly resumed eating his cakes.

"Yes, Dean."

Dean's breath caught in his chest and he sent a wild look over to Bobby who was returning it with a sadly resigned one of his own. To both of the older men, Sam's answer had sounded uncomfortably close to 'Yes, _sir._'

That observation was enough to completely destroy any chances of getting Dean to eat again. The older Winchester's stomach flipped and it was all he could do to keep his small breakfast from making a speedy reappearance.

Bobby quietly sipped his coffee during the few tense minutes of silence that passed while Sam obediently forked sticky bites of pancake into his mouth. Dean was twirling his coffee cup between his hands, a frown marring his handsome face. When Sam gulped down the last of his juice, he turned to his brother.

"I'm finished. May I be excused?" he asked quietly.

Another wave of nausea crested Dean's throat and he swallowed rapidly, willing his composure to remain in place.

"Yeah, sure," he choked out before adding hastily "Clear your dishes first."

"Yes, Dean," Sam replied again before gathering up his plate, silverware and glass. He took them over to the sink and then headed back towards the stairs.

Watching Sam's departure, already losing his fight against the nausea, Dean watched as Sam moved a little more stiffly than normal up the stairs. The reminder of the whipping he had given his little brother finished him off and he raced towards the trashcan, barely making it in time before his lone pancake made its rapid escape from his stomach.

His insides roiling with guilt, Dean heaved three times before there was nothing left to come out. Sweating profusely and gasping, he didn't even hear Bobby come up behind him, slightly startled by the warm hand that gently patted his back.

"Easy, boy," the familiar voice came. "It's going to be okay."

Dean spat into the trash one last time, before slowly standing up. Grabbing a paper towel off of the sink, he wiped his mouth before turning pained green eyes up at his uncle.

"We don't know that, Bobby. Dad could be gone. What am I going to do? I promised Sam I wouldn't hunt anymore."

Dean rubbed his face with his hand, turning away slowly. "I don't even know how to be normal anymore."

Bobby felt his heart breaking at the sad confession. It was easy to think of Dean as a trained deadly weapon in his father's arsenal, but Bobby could still see the scared unsure boy inside of the hardened body of the hunter.

"You know you're always welcome here, boy."

Dean sighed deeply and forced a smile. "I know. And I appreciate it, but me and Sam have to hit the road in the morning if.."

He didn't finished the sentence. Didn't need to. Bobby knew all too well that if John Winchester didn't come strolling through his door soon, the boys would leave, obeying their father's last orders to the letter. And God only knew when Bobby would see them again, if ever.

Bobby reached out and cupped the back of Dean's neck. Dean allowed the contact briefly, even leaned into it a little, but he soon regained his composure and straightened up. Effectively ending the quiet moment and any further discussion on the matter.

"I gotta go brush my teeth and get Cinderfella outta the shower," he joked half halfheartedly. Making his way over to the stairs, Dean stopped but didn't turn back. "Thanks Uncle Bobby," he said quietly before running to take the stairs three at a time.

The rest of the day passed agonizingly slowly for the three of them. After cleaning up from the morning, Dean had decided to work off some nervous energy by giving the Impala a full tune up. Although he always kept his beautiful girl running smoothly, she could always use some extra affection. Sammy had curled up beside him on the hard ground, his head studiously bent over a notepad as he worked diligently on his punishment essay.

Dean noticed his little brother squirming every few minutes, knowing that the position had to be uncomfortable for the boy's well spanked behind.

"You know, you could take that into the study and sit on your favorite pillows," he said kindly. "I don't have you on lock-down."

Sam scowled and squirmed again, resolutely claiming his position as he continued his work. "I'm fine, Dean."

Dean smiled slightly, having temporarily forgotten that a punished Sammy was a clingy Sammy. After a spanking from his father, once the storm clouds had blown over, Sam would always seek John out and stick to him like glue. It was as if the boy needed reassurance that he was still loved and cherished after misbehaving, and John had never disappointed.

Dean conveniently decided that the tune up was finished just as Sammy was standing up to take his essay inside to Bobby. The younger boy wasn't fooled, gifting his older brother with a grateful look as they both made their way into the house. After a lunch that was barely touched, Bobby finished Sam's punishment by giving the boy some chores to do which Dean offered to help with. Neither brother wanting to be too far from the other.

Even with the distraction of the physical labor, Dean could tell that Sam was starting to get antsy again, so after the final chore was completed, he sent Sam upstairs to change into his running clothes before heading into the study where Bobby was researching.

"Hey, uh we're gonna go for a run. The runt needs to burn off some energy before he goes nuke again."

Bobby frowned and immediately shook his head. "I don't think that's a very good idea. If Sam needs more to do, I can give him something."

"Nah, thanks, but usually he only calms down once I've made him run his ass off. We'll just be an hour or so. Not far," Dean assured him and turned to leave.

"Dean!"

Startled by both the volume and urgency of Bobby's tone, Dean stopped in his tracks and turned around, a puzzled frown on his face.

Bobby closed his eyes for a brief second and cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It's getting late. We'll be having dinner soon. Why don't you just hang around here, alright?"

Dean knew when he was being handled, and he usually didn't like it. He would tolerate it from his father because it was John's place to handle his sons, but everyone else could just shove it as far as the older boy was concerned.

"What's going on, Bobby? Why don't you want us to go out?"

Bobby looked like he was going to protest for a brief second before he sighed and gave in.

"Your Daddy's orders. He doesn't want you leaving my yard. You're safe here. There's a perimeter set up. But you can't go out any further."

A perimeter. That explained a lot. The way Bobby knew when they had arrived and the secret looks he kept throwing out the windows. Bobby's place had a hunter's patrol around it. Dean's stomach threatened to turn over again. Things really were that bad.

"Let me guess. Caleb?" He tried for casual.

"No," Bobby replied quietly. "Caleb and Jim Murphy are with your daddy. Jefferson and Martin have watch here."

Involuntarily, Dean's heartbeat picked up pace and he fought to remember his breathing exercises to calm himself down. Including Bobby, that made five hunters besides his father involved in whatever this was. A strength of numbers that was almost unheard of.

"So, you got stuck with babysitting duty, huh?" Casual was being replaced by smart-ass, prompting a sad smile from his surrogate uncle.

"Something like that."

Dean swallowed thickly, the tumblers falling into place. His father had always had the utmost respect for Bobby's hunting and survival skills. He had even more respect for Bobby's affection for his boys. Dean knew that his father trusted very few people and even fewer around his kids. John would trust Bobby to comfort his grieving children when the bad news came.

He turned his head at the sound of Sam bounding down the stairs, all wavy chestnut locks and coltish lanky limbs.

"Change of plan, Sammy. Let's go spar down in the basement."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

John Winchester groaned as his truck hit another pothole in the road. Among his numerous superficial injuries were two cracked ribs that screamed like a bitch kitty every time he jostled his body in the slightest. He wasn't getting any younger, as he constantly reminded himself. And having expended every last ounce of adrenaline reserve that he possessed over the last twenty four hours, he was barely keeping conscious.

Aware of the time deadline he was up against, he had hit the road as soon as humanly possible. Jim had tried to get him to at least rest for the night, but John had waved him off impatiently. Too much time had passed since he had been able to talk to his boys. He had left them in the dark and scared. The first for their own safety, the second as a result of the first. He needed to get to them. Now.

Jim, for once, hadn't argued. He knew the stakes, knew that Bobby would never allow them to take even a reassuring phone call. The chances of the voice being someone other than John was too much of a possibility with this hunt. So John got into his truck and booked, cracked ribs and all.

Fortunately, Singer's place was only ninety some miles away. Even slightly dazed and half awake, he could manage that, easy. Of course, he couldn't drive with the speed he desired at this point. As banged up as he was, he couldn't afford to have some overzealous Deputy Dawg pull him over for going a couple of miles over the limit. Too many questions with not enough answers.

And then, of course, there was Adam.

John glanced at the sleeping boy in the passenger seat out of the corner of his eye. Poor kid had been through hell in the last few days. John's guts twisted as he thought about the carnage that had awaited him at Kate's home in Windom.

There was a little part of John that gnawed at him occasionally when he looked into the eyes of his eldest son. Although he couldn't be completely sure, there was that small irritating voice in the back of his head that wondered just how much of his beloved Mary's murder Dean had witnessed that night.

From the months of stone cold silence from his child in the aftermath, John would venture to guess that the four year old had seen more than he ever should have. They never talked about it. Dean never hinted at it and, truthfully, John was just too much of a coward to bring the subject up himself. But still.

There was no doubt this time around. Eight year old Adam had been bound and gagged next to the dining room table where the family of ghouls feasted on the remains of his mother. Forced to watch. The fact that one of the horrendous creatures had chosen to take Kate's form during their meal brought the ordeal to a whole new level of fucked up.

During the fight that ensued after his arrival, John personally took out the Kate imposter. After seeing Adam safely into the hands of Jim Murphy and removed from the house, John had taken his time.

And he could be terribly creative when he wanted to be.

Adam stirred in his sleep, moaning softly, and John instinctively reached out and gently rubbed the boy's small back. Any doubt he might have had about Adam's parentage vanished the moment he had first looked at the boy with Dean's freckles and Sammy's nose.

In fact, if he squinted just a little, he could easily see Adam being Mary's son as well. It was no coincidence that the first woman that he had spent more than a one night stand with had more than a casual resemblance to his late wife.

Sighing deeply, John turned his concentration back to the road. If for no other reason than to not think about how much therapy his entire family probably needed, if he believed in such a thing. No. There would be no child psychologists in Adam's future. Once he was ready, John would put a gun in his hand, just like he had with his older brothers.

Another beautiful woman taken by supernatural filth. Another motherless son. The Winchester family legacy.

John pushed a little harder on the accelerator, now more anxious than ever to see his boys.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.

The clock on the wall of Bobby's living room was one of those old antiquated things from the seventies that would look more at home in a sterile office setting than the slightly frayed but cozy room of Bobby's house. It was the slightly louder than necessary click of the seconds hand that was currently grating on Dean's nerves.

Dean was wedged in the end of the lumpy couch. Theoretically attempting to rest, but he wasn't fooling anyone. He knew his father would have his hide for not getting some shut-eye while he had the chance. Tired hunters make mistakes. But there was no way that Dean was going to rest easy this night. Only six hours remained before he had to pack up his little brother and get the hell out of Dodge.

Said little brother was currently curled up on the rest of the couch. Thin ankles and feet dangling over the far arm, his mop of curls resting on a pillow cradled in his big brother's lap. Sam was laying on his belly, his head turned towards the ancient television, his big doe eyes getting heavier with sleep as they watched nothing in particular.

Dean had his feet propped up on the scarred wooden coffee table. Something that Bobby normally would not have allowed. With his right hand he was gently kneading the tension out of Sammy's back and shoulders, hopefully lulling the boy into sleep. Bobby had taken an emergency phone call from another hunter and was currently scouring some ancient Japanese texts looking for information on Tanuki.

He didn't even realize that he was drifting off until he felt Sam bolt from the couch and run outside.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Sam knew that sound. Knew it like he knew the sound of his own name. He had just about succumbed to Dean's gentle prodding to sleep when he heard his father's big black beast of a truck pull into Singer Salvage.

Disregarding his bare feet, Sam tore out of the house and down the short driveway. Every precaution his father had ever drummed into his head being cast aside in his desperate haste to see his dad again. He barely heard his brother call after him as he ran towards the truck. Rewarded with the heart stopping sight of his larger than life father exiting the beast and waiting for Sam with his arms wide open in welcome.

Tired and crashing from his adrenaline high, John was functioning through sheer willpower alone by the time he exited his truck. He barely had time to glance up at the old house before he saw his fifteen year old race down the overgrown driveway, his arms pumping for speed.

Out of habit, John spread his arms open, hoping for a hug from his normally sullen boy. Instead, he was almost knocked flat when the not insubstantial weight of his slight but muscular child slammed into him, rattling his teeth and cracking against his already damaged ribs.

John bit back the hiss of pain that wanted to escape. Glad that he did when he realized that Sam had actually jumped at him, wrapping his arms around John's neck. Reflexively, John hefted his son upwards, holding the thin frame tight against his chest.

Sam hadn't greeted him like this in years. When the boy had been younger, John had always been on the receiving end of a launched Sammy, the small arms encircling his neck, the short legs wrapped around his waist.

Remembering this a little too late, John braced himself for Sam's legs, but the boy seemed to have stopped his momentum before that final motion. Although, he was currently dangling from John's neck, his bare feet dirty, but no longer touching the ground. In response, his father held him tight against his own chest, bearing the boy's entire body the scream of cracked ribs.

Relishing the infrequent affection from his most stubborn of children, John wouldn't have cared if all of his ribs were broken. He would have stood there and held his boy all night long if Sammy wanted him to.

They remained like that for only a few seconds before John felt Sammy's body shaking against his. Horrified, he realized that his little boy was crying. Deep, pained sobs that crushed his heart and wet tears that soaked the neck of his shirt. Drawing from an untapped well of strength, he held Sam tighter and gently rocked him.

"Shhh..kiddo. It's okay. Everything's okay. I've got you."

Before Sam could respond, John heard his eldest son's irritated voice as he ran down the driveway.

"Sam! Where the hell are you? You don't even have any shoes on!"

Once Dean was closer, he could make out the shapes of his father and brother in the darkness and stopped cold.

"Dad?"

Dean stood motionless, his mouth gulping like a fish, unsure of what to do. Training kicking in, he grabbed his silver knife from the sheath on his belt.

"Let go of him," he hissed, jerking his head towards is little brother.

In spite of his exhaustion and irritation, John couldn't help but smile a little. He was never more proud of his eldest than he was at the moment. Gently he tried to lower Sam to the ground, but the boy just gripped tighter, almost choking him with the effort.

With his mouth quirked into a grin, John gave Dean a 'what can you do?' kind of look and wordlessly hefted Sam into just his right arm, holding out his left for Dean's knife test and biting back a groan of pain. His ribs were now singing grand opera and selfishly John hoped the inspection would end soon before he passed out cold in front of his boys.

Carefully, Dean approached him, taking pains to do it like he was taught. Making sure to do nothing to put Sammy at further risk. With a quick flourish, he made a small cut against John's arm, relieved at the lack of response it earned.

John was smiling benevolently at him as Dean reached for his small flask of holy water and salt and offered it to him. The tired man took the flask, drank a long swig of the nasty, brackish fluid and then handed it back. Once Dean had taken it, the older boy's eyes filled with tears and a heavy whoosh of breath came out of his lungs.

"Dad?" he said again, this time with a hint of little boy in the voice.

John's facade crumbled and his eyes shined with unshed tears as he held out his free arm to his firstborn. Dean didn't launch himself like Sam had, but he wasn't shy either, pressing his hard chest against his father's and burying his face in John's shoulder.

John held his sons tightly, ignoring the now raging burn in his side. Relieved beyond words, he took turns pressing rough kisses onto the tops of their heads, grateful for their safety and well being. They must have been asleep as he noticed that Sam was in his pajamas, his thick brown hair sweet smelling of shampoo from his evening shower. Dean looked a little rougher around the edges, his face drawn and more pale than John cared to see it.

He put too much on the sturdy shoulders of his eldest.

Dean recovered first and noticed the pain on his father's face. He could guess the reason from the way John was favoring his side, so he pulled away gently and patted Sam on the back.

"Hey, c'mon Sammy. You need to get some shoes on. You could have really cut yourself out here dude."

Sam frowned and reluctantly slid down to his feet, his father grunting a little but already missing the warmth of his sons pressed against him. With a thud, Dean dropped Sam's sneakers on the ground and Sam slipped his feet into them, not bothering with the laces.

"Dad, we were so worried," Dean started, his face pained.

John sighed deeply and reached out to cup the sides of his sons' faces. "I know, and I'm so sorry about that. It was necessary at the time to keep you safe."

Sam fidgeted a little, his big hazel eyes wide and pleading. "What happened, Dad? Where did you go?"

For once Dean didn't try to stop his questions, clearly just as interested as Sam in the answers. However, John didn't want to get into the gory details just yet. He was bone tired and hurting and starving and there was still so much to reveal.

"Later," he promised, his voice deep and rumbling but warm. "I'll tell you everything later, I promise."

Sam scowled but uncharacteristically didn't argue. Dean just nodded his head, accepting anything that John offered without question. John smiled wearily at them, just glad to see their beautiful faces again. In an attempt to lighten the mood, he cupped the back of Dean's neck and tucked a curl behind Sam's ear.

"So, did everything go okay here? You boys behaved yourselves, didn't you?" he teased, hoping for a pair of matching sheepish grins. Usually the boys had a wonderful time at Singer's place.

Unexpectedly, Dean stiffened and Sammy dropped his eyes to the ground, his face paling. _Damnit_. The last thing he wanted to do right now was turn into Mad Dad. From the looks of it, someone, most likely Mary's youngest, had gotten his behind smacked in his absence. John took a deep breath and rubbed both of the boys' backs, wanting nothing more than to be with his children and not chastising them.

"'S okay, boys. Whatever it is can wait for later," he said kindly. He hesitated for just the briefest of seconds before continuing in a rush. "I have someone I want you to meet." 


	5. Fraternity

Both of the boys frowned in confusion as they watched their father gingerly make his way over to the passenger side of the truck. John seemed to be moving silently and stealthily, leaving his slightly confused and questioning offspring to grow more inquisitive about the mysterious occupant.

Opening the large door, wincing at the low toned creak the aged metal of the hinges made, John leaned in and carefully and slowly scooped up a small sleeping boy into his arms, oblivious to the two pairs of disbelieving eyes blinking owlishly at him as he extracted the boy.

Dean, as usual, recovered first. Primarily because his confusion and curiosity were overruled by his concern for his father's welfare. Knowing that his dad was most likely sporting a rib injury from the way he had held them and moved around, Dean's first reaction was to assist his old man in anyway possible. Explanations be damned.

"Dad, give 'em to me," he insisted softly but firmly, holding out his arms to relieve John of his burden.

John hesitated a fraction of a second. A miniscule throwback to a time when he considered himself a good father, he briefly considered the trauma that Adam might experience if he woke in the arms of a complete stranger, in the dark, at a house he didn't know. The boy had already been through so much.

Of course, it wasn't as if Adam knew him very well either. Thanks to a few scattered photographs that Kate had managed to take of John during their short few weeks together, the little boy had grown up knowing that the man in the pictures was his father. But their actual in person encounter had been fleetingly brief and under the most horrendous of circumstances.

His ribs already howling in protest of the slight weight in his arms, coupled with the more convincing fact that it was _Dean _who would be the recipient of his newest son, made up his mind for him and he willingly, albeit reluctantly, relinquished his small bundle to his rock steady eldest.

Dean easily hefted the small boy into his arms. To him, it didn't seem like it had been all that long ago that he had carried Sammy like this and he smiled softly in remembrance.

He would fiercely deny it to anyone that had the audacity to suggest such a thing, but he had fond memories of the few years after his own growth spurt rendered him a giant to Sam's small form. Short sweet years of being a true big brother with the stature and willingness to pluck a tired grumpy Sammy from the backseat of the Impala and tote him into their home du jour. Sam's large eyes drooping with exhaustion from being kept out into the wee hours of the morning, and a subconscious that had him sleepily clinging to his big brother's flannel overshirt as he was gently deposited into his bed.

The strange boy stirred a little during the gentle transfer, but easily enough Dean's practiced hands had cradled the small body gently against his own without disturbing the soft deep breathing of a child's slumber.

"Dad? Who is this?" Sam finally asked, patience at an end.

His voice was a bit louder than it should have been given the caution that his father and brother had exercised to keep the child sleeping, and he was immediately _shushed_ by both of the older Winchesters. In response, John merely put his arm around Sam and gently propelled him in the direction of the house.

"Inside, Sam," he responded quietly. "I'll tell you everything inside."

John and Sam made their way up to the house slowly in deference to John's injuries. Dean followed behind them, keeping watch, ever vigilant, even as he held the little boy protectively against his chest.

Bobby waited for them on the porch, a shotgun in his hands. He had watched everything from a comfortable distance, allowing John and his boys to have their reunion in private, but still standing guard He gave John an affectionate clap on the shoulder as he and Sam made their way onto the porch and then waited quietly as Dean navigated the short steps with the slumbering child.

"This him, Johnny?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah," John answered tiredly, unaware of the apparent sadness in his voice as he uttered the single word. The response did not go unnoticed by either of Mary's boys.

Bobby just nodded, silent and contemplative. He didn't waste any time, simply ushered them all into the house. Jerking his chin in the direction of the recently abandoned sofa, he turned to Dean.

"Put him over there, Dean. He can sleep well enough, I reckon. I'll grab a blanket out of the hall closet.

Dean nodded and obeyed, easily striding across the room and lowering the little boy down onto the cushions slowly and gently. Bobby returned with a crocheted throw that Dean recognized as one that his late wife had made, but didn't remark on it as they covered the sleeping child who burrowed into the newly found warmth but still did not awaken.

By unanimous silent agreement, Bobby and his house guests padded softly into the kitchen where Bobby eased the ancient pocket doors halfway closed in an attempt to drown out some of the sound that he knew they would be making.

"When was the late time you ate something, Johnny?" he asked, noticing the pale skin and dark circles under the eyes of the eldest Winchester. John smiled tiredly and let out a little snort.

"A while ago. Yesterday, I think," he admitted as Bobby shook his head.

"Mm hmm," he stated knowingly. "That's what I thought. How bout a beer and a couple of cold meatloaf sandwiches?"

John's stomach suddenly made itself known again and the rumble it emitted was clearly heard by everyone. Bobby was already making his way over to the refrigerator and pulling out a glass baking dish.

"Your boys didn't eat too much either while you were gone," he stated, a little annoyed. "I'd like to make them a couple too if you wouldn't mind ensuring that they ate a little."

John frowned and took in the sad pale faces of his boys. Sam and Dean looked so miserable that he didn't have the heart to scold them for not eating in his absence.

"We'd all love some sandwiches, Bobby," he said firmly. "Thanks."

John cocked his head in the direction of the chairs around the kitchen table and, with his patented paternal glare, he indicated that the boys should sit down. Sheepish, they immediately obeyed as their father shuffled over to the refrigerator. While Bobby assembled sandwiches, John pulled out the jug of milk he found inside and then reached for two glasses. He made his way slowly back to the table and poured the milk, placing a full glass of the cold creamy liquid in front of both of his sons.

Dean smirked at the offering, pushing the glass a couple of inches back.

"Um, I don't do the milk thing anymore, Dad. How about a beer?" he asked cockily, his green eyes flashing bravado.

John didn't answer his foolishly smug eldest. He merely smirked, his left eyebrow raising slightly and gently pushed the glass back. Dean wasn't brash enough to ignore the unspoken threat on his father's misleadingly pleasant face. Reaching over, he grabbed the glass and raised it to his mouth.

"How about I just shut my hole and drink the milk?" he grumbled, much to his father's amusement.

Sam snorted as he partially drained his own glass. He never enjoyed seeing his big brother get into any real trouble, but Dean could be so bossy at times that the younger boy still took pleasure from seeing him get taken down a peg or two by their father at times.

In just a short couple of minutes, Bobby was bringing over plates laden with thick sandwiches and a pile of potato chips. With their father home safe, the boys were suddenly ravenous and they tore into their food, Dean closing his eyes and practically grunting with pleasure. As much as the older boy didn't want to admit it, the milk tasted perfectly with the food and he pretended to not notice the twinkle in his father's eye as John refilled the boys' glasses.

They ate in silence, except for the occasional muted burp. John expected his boys to show good manners at the dinner table. But it wasn't long before the tired hunter sensed his younger son getting restless and the companionable quiet they had enjoyed over the snack was certainly coming to an end soon.

Determined to preempt what the potential beginning to a huge blow up, John wiped his mouth with a napkin and leaned back into his chair.

"His name is Adam," he said softly. "And a few years ago, I knew his mother."

Dean put down the crust remainder of his sandwich and shoved the plate away, giving his father his full attention. Sam continued to nibble on, his forehead crinkled in thought as was his way, listening to his father's words and processing them.

John took in a deep breath and slowly released it. Under ordinary circumstances, he would have just matter of factly explained the situation and then moved on, expecting his sons to snap to and accept it. But this wasn't an ordinary circumstance by any means and he was a little out of his depth.

"I met Kate in Minnesota when I caught wind of a hunt there. Do you boys remember the winter when you spent some weeks at Jim's place right after Christmas?"

Sam frowned, thinking, but Dean recalled it right away.

"Yeah. Blue Earth was having that snow carnival. Sammy wanted to enter the snowman competition. But it was a couple of days long."

Now Sam was nodding his head. It was a good memory. One of the few times he remembered their father allowing them a little normalcy.

"That's right. Dean talked you into letting us stay with Pastor Jim while you went on the hunt," he added with a little smile. "He made an entire snowman rock band and we ended up winning the junior competition."

Dean chuckled softly before his face clouded over.

"Yep, it was awesome. But that was the winter you got really hurt and were gone for such a long time."

John smiled sadly at his now sadder boys, hurt that even their few happy memories were tainted with sorrow.

"It was a ghoul hunt. A pretty bad one. I got the son of a bitch, but it almost got me too. Luckily I made it close enough to a main road to be found. I woke up a few days later in the hospital there. Kate was my nurse."

John stopped for a moment, taking a deep breath as he tried to gather his strength. He gratefully accepted the the small tumbler of Hunter's Helper that Bobby placed in front of him. Taking a long swig, he closed his eyes for a second as the burning liquid seared down his throat.

"She was a good woman, an excellent nurse. Took real good care of me. She was the one that called Jim and told him what was going on so you boys wouldn't worry about me not coming right back. Doctors said it was a bear attack."

Dean snorted. The average uneducated civilian would convince themselves that suspicious injuries and happenings were anything else just to be able to sleep in denial at night.

"Kate never asked, but I could tell that she knew the official story was bullshit. She was a real smart lady. The few days I was there, we talked and became friendly. I didn't plan on staying in the hospital as long as I did. Knew the card would be declined pretty soon. She caught me trying to sneak out one night. Almost passed out right in front of her. Told her I had to go."

John smiled wistfully and took another swallow. The boys were silent, just listening to him reminisce. Clearing his throat, he continued,.

"She told me I was being a foolish idiot. That I was still too injured to go off on my own and wouldn't take no for an answer. Finally I had to tell her that I couldn't pay to stay anymore and she understood. Didn't just let me go though. Insisted I stay with her for a while until I was back on my feet. I couldn't even think clear enough to drive, so I just gave in. She took me home and I spent the next two weeks at her house."

Sam's contemplative face became a frown as the memories of missing and worrying about his father returned from that time. It had been the longest that John had ever left his sons.

"So, some woman from your past calls you and you just ditch us to go running back to her?" he demanded, hurt from all of the days of worry this time brought. "Do you see her a lot?"

"No, Sammy," John soothed, keeping his temper in check. "It wasn't like that at all."

"Well, what was it, Dad?" Dean asked quietly. He wasn't sure where this was heading, but his senses told him that he wasn't going to like it.

"It wasn't Kate that called me. When we were in Memphis, I got a call saying that Kate was being held hostage. That it was payback for the ghoul that I killed. They said that if I didn't come and face them myself, Kate was going to die."

Now Dean was seriously fuming. "Dad, why didn't you let us go with you? We could have helped. We've done it before. Do you know how scared we were? You FUBAR'd us, Dad!"

John leaned over and placed a restraining hand on Dean's knee. Part comfort and part warning to lower his voice.

"The caller also said that if I didn't come alone, my son would die too," he stated quietly. "I couldn't take the chance, kiddo. I had to make sure that you boys were safe before anything else. There was more than one this time. Last time I barely got out alive. I didn't think I would make it back, son. I'm sorry."

Placated for a moment, Dean fell silent and Sammy slightly shivered. John reached over to Sam and cupped the back of his neck, giving the boy an encouraging smile.

"S'okay, Sammy. It's over."

They didn't speak for a few seconds, just comforted by the fact that they were still all well and together. Dean's anger had immediately evaporated and, with his father's warm hand on his neck, Sam took a quick shuddering breath and relaxed.

"While we were driving I called Bobby and told him what was going on. He helped me gather a few more men together. Jim and Caleb were the closest to Kate, so they agreed to meet me there. Then Bobby got a hold of Jefferson and Martin to make a perimeter here. Once I knew you boys were safe, we went in."

Dean took a deep breath and gave his father a crooked smile. "Joke's on them, huh Dad? Did they really think that you would just bring us to them?"

John smiled at his son sadly, and shook his head

"No, Dean. They didn't."

He paused, gathering his strength for the reveal, trying to ignore the hurt confused looks on his sons' faces.

"I hadn't spoken to Kate since the day I left her house all those years ago. I gave her my emergency number in case she ever needed me, but she never called. And, frankly, I never called her either. She was just a good memory from a bad time. And once I knew that the family of the ghoul I killed had her, looking for revenge on me, all I could think about, my only thought was to keep you boys safe."

John reached over and drained the scotch glass dry, clearing his throat. It was time.

"I was so scared for you boys that I didn't even really think about what the ghoul was saying to me on the phone. That they were going to kill my son. Not _sons_ but _son._ I didn't know what it was talking about until I got to Windom and found Adam."

John let out a deep breath, waiting for the inevitable fallout. Bobby was quiet. He knew the story already. Jim had called him immediately and explained everything just in case John didn't make it out. Sam was chewing on a thumbnail, a scowl on his face as he assimilated his father's words, and Dean went from confused to fuming in two short seconds.

"Adam is my son, boys. He's your half-brother."

Dean sat at his end of the table, shaking his head in disbelief, his temper starting to flare dangerously.

"No. No way. This is a trick or something. No way would you have another kid and not tell us," he stated emphatically, wanting with everything he had to force his father to deny his previous words.

"I didn't know about him, Dean. Not until I went up there and saw him. Kate never told me," John soothed, willing his son to believe him. He had expected this reaction from Sam. To have to defend himself against Dean was a scenario he had not imagined during the drive from Minnesota.

But Dean was not going to be calmed easily. Anyone in the room could clearly see that. The boy's hands clenched and unclenched. His green eyes burning wild with fire.

"So, some chick you met years ago has a kid and never calls you? She just waits until the kid is in danger from some filthy ghouls and then decides that it's time for you to be Daddy? Where is she anyway? Off screwing around with another hunter while we babysit her brat?"

John's eyes flashed dangerously and he reached out a restraining hand against Dean's chest in warning. It was a messed up situation, but there was only just so much insubordination that he would allow from his son.

"Hey! Knock it off, Dean," he growled. John took a deep breath, determined to be calmer and quieter as to not wake his littlest boy. Besides which, the crushing guilt and sadness was threatening to undo him.

"I didn't make it in time to help Kate," he admitted shamefully. "She was already dead when I got there. And that boy," John tilted his head towards the sofa, "was forced to watch as his mother was eaten. So you watch your mouth until you know the whole story."

Dean backed down a bit. He wasn't a cruel person and just because he wasn't overly enamored with the idea of a new little brother, it didn't mean that he could just blow off the horrific event the small boy had suffered.

But he wasn't ready to let John off the hook either. Sammy was only seven when John was hurt on that hunt. That meant that it had only been less than seven years since their mom had been killed. In Dean's eyes, that was still too short of a time for his father to have been with another woman and fathered a child with her. Their mother was the reason they lived the way they did and did the things that they did. How could his father just forget her like that?

A purple haze of rage started to edge into the corners of his eyes. He remembered how scared he had been for his father's safety during that first hunt. How Sammy had clung to him at night before bed wondering where their dad was and when he was coming back. Sam didn't know about the supernatural that time. All he knew was that Daddy had gone away for a while.

It wasn't so much different from these past few days. The same fear, the same worry. The same little brother scared that his father wasn't coming home. And again it was up to Dean to hold down the fort. Keep things okay. Sometimes the responsibility was just too much. And now there was another little brother who would rely on him for everything and Dean didn't know if he could take care of two.

"Any other little Winchesters out there that we should know about?" he asked testily, already fearing the added responsibility.

"Dean.." John began, holding his hands up in surrender.

"No, Dad. I'm serious. How many women have you hooked up with since Mom was killed? I just want to know how many more kids I have to take care of. How many other Florence Nightingale whores have you knocked up?"

The resounding slap that followed echoed around the small kitchen with the rapport of a gunshot. John shook with unbridled anger, clenching his hands into fists to avoid striking his son again. He watched the red bloom of color spread across Dean's cheek and tried not to feel sick about being the one to have caused it.

Dean reached up and palmed his cheek, shaking with emotion. While he had been on the receiving end of countless spankings growing up, John had never slapped him before.

"Kate was a good person who deserves more respect than that, boy. And I didn't raise you to talk about a lady that way." John's voice was deathly soft and hard as he stared at his son.

The pit of Dean's stomach was a swirling mass of hurt, confusion, anger, remorse and self-righteousness as they warred their way to his brain. In the end, it was the sadness, longing and faithfulness to his mother's memory that caused him to lash out at his father.

"You didn't raise me to do much of anything," he spat at his father, the meaning behind his words perfectly clear. "And I'm not going to be the one that gets stuck raising another one of your sons."

The foul hateful words were out of Dean's mouth before he realized that he had said them. Instantly he wished he could take them back. Even without seeing his father's face go white and then red with anger. Even before he heard the sharp gasp coming out of Sammy's mouth.

Remembering that his younger brother was still in the room a little too late, Dean turned around just in time to see Sam's eyes tear over and the wounded boy bolt towards the stairs and up to their room. John was glaring at him with a shame inducing look that drilled right through his brain, and Bobby just stood in the background shaking his head sadly.

It was too much.

Dean grabbed his car keys from the table and fled out the door and into the night. The throaty rumble of the Impala's engine roaring to life as it tore down the driveway.

"Well, that went well," Bobby snarked as John reached for the scotch bottle.

"Shut up, Singer," John growled, in no mood to be censured over his parenting.

He reached into the freezer and pulled out half a tray of freezer burned ice cubes. He pried a couple loose and plunked them into the tumbler, filling it with the scotch and then pressing the cold glass against his head. Already at his physical and mental limit, he could feel a mother of a headache coming on.

The two men sat in silence for a couple of minutes while John self-medicated and took stock of the current status of his offspring.

One tiny son still amazingly asleep on the couch, most likely having nightmarish dreams of his mother's murder. _Check_.

One adolescent holed up in his room, brooding and hurting over his brother's careless words. _Check_.

One young adult, recklessly driving, most likely in search of cheap booze and cheaper women, still majorly pissed off. _Check, check and triple check_.

It's the Winchester Trifecta Johnny boy. Well done.

"He didn't mean what he said, Johnny," Bobby ventured quietly in the silence of the late evening.

John took a long swallow of the scotch, leaning back in his chair, his eyes drooping in exhausted protest.

"Yeah, he did. On some level, he definitely meant it."

And Dean deserved to. John knew that. If anyone knew how much pressure he put on his oldest son, it was John. Not a day went by that he didn't regret it, but it didn't stop him from continuing either. Dean was a natural hunter and a born protector. And he shared John's devotion to the cause. Always had, even from a young age. But John could only expect just so much understanding from the boy.

John exhaled deeply, wanting badly to change the subject. He drained the glass and set it down on the table with a dull thunk, a ghost of a smile on his lips.

"So, what did Sammy do to get his ass handed to him while I was gone?"

Bobby started for a second and then realized who he was talking to. Of course John knew his boys well enough to sense that there had been some drama in the house.

"Threw a little tantrum. You know how he gets."

John nodded. Oh boy did he know.

"They were worried, Johnny. Near out of their minds. Dean just shut down and that left Sam to stew. Came to a head yesterday."

John tiredly rubbed his face and stretched in the chair.

"I'm gonna go up and check on him. I don't want to get into it with him tonight, all things considered. But, I'm sorry he acted up. Tomorrow I'll have him over my knee for a little reminder that he needs to keep off of yours."

As John stood up, preparing to go and comfort his boy, Bobby stopped him.

"Wasn't me, Johnny. Sam got the business end of a belt alright. But Dean was the one that handed it out."

Now John felt as if he had been slapped.

"What? You telling me that Dean, the same Dean that makes me feel like a murderer of small puppies every time I raise a hand to Sammy, gave his brother a whipping? Were you here? What happened?"

Bobby removed his hat to rub nervously at his scalp. The whole thing still wasn't sitting well with him.

"I was here alright. Wish I hadn't been. I could have gone comfortably to my reward without ever watching them go through that. Dean was scared, John. He thought you weren't coming back. And you made him Sam's guardian, ya idjit. Didn't it occur to you that he would follow your orders and take the responsibility seriously?"

Shattered and heartsick, John flopped back into the chair and put his head in his hands. Bobby felt sympathy for the man, but he felt more for the boys. John had to know how it affected them.

"It almost broke the both of them," he continued. "But they love each other fiercely and they were frightened. They came out of it okay, but I don't know about now."

John raised his head and took in the older man's words.

"I need to check on Sammy," he stated quietly as he rose from the chair. "Will you watch over Adam for me for a few minutes?"

"Course."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Loose gravel flew under the tires of the Impala as Dean sped his way towards town. He had completely fucked up and he knew it. Sure he was mad at his father, but he never ever had disrespected him like that. And he didn't mean it.

John was a lot of things, had been the bearer of many disappointments in his sons' lives, but he tried to be a good father. He didn't always succeed, but there had never been a moment in Dean's life when he wasn't sure of his father's love. John just had a hard time showing it.

And yeah, he was away a lot. But he had also taught Dean everything he knew from how to tie a shoelace to how to hold a pistol. Dean's attack had been hurtful and immature and unwarranted. And, for good measure, he had decimated his little brother in the process.

Well done, Winchester. Well done.

He was too ashamed to go back to Bobby's. His father was probably furious with him and as for Sam, well he wasn't sure that his brother would ever speak to him again. After the couple of rough days they had just been through, he didn't know where he stood with his brother right now.

He pulled into the cracked paved parking lot of the first bar he saw. Just a handful of other cars. It was small and run down, probably a rougher trade than he might normally go for. But Dean didn't care. He just wanted a drink or two or twenty.

Inside it was just as he surmised. The rickety tables were empty, probably due to the state of filth accumulated on them. Old cheap seventies décor that probably hadn't been adequately sponged down since they were put in new. There were a couple of broken down men and women that matched the furniture scattered around the bar on the mismatched stools, hunched over their beverages of choice. They paid him no attention as he swaggered in and took a stool of his own at the very end.

The bartender was a brunette, most likely in her late thirties, but it was hard to really tell. She had probably been attractive once, but time and life had eaten away at any residual beauty she might have possessed. She gave him an appreciative glance as he sat, answering his request for a beer with a draft in a fairly clean pint glass and didn't bother checking his ID.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

John slipped quietly into the boys' bedroom. Sam was lying on his stomach, his face pressed into the pillow. He was feigning sleep, but John knew his boy better than that.

The pain of his ribs was down to a dull ache thanks to the scotch, so it wasn't terribly uncomfortable to lower himself to sit on the side of Sam's bed. He didn't say anything for a minute, just reached over and gently rubbed Sam's back. Sam stiffened for a minute, but then he allowed himself to relax under his father's touch. For which, John was exceedingly grateful.

"You mad at me too?"

Sam took a deep breath, holding it for a couple of seconds before letting it out slowly. His trademark tell for deep contemplation.

"No," he answered quietly after a bit. "Not really."

Sam fidgeted a little, pushing off his father's hand as gently as he could, but clearly wanting it gone. When John got the hint, Sam turned around to face him.

"You really didn't know, right?" he asked, his big hazel eyes pleading for the truth.

"No, Sammy. I didn't. I swear."

Sam stared at him long and hard. Under other circumstances, he might have been inclined to fight with his father a little more about the carelessness of unprotected sex. After all, John had given both Dean and Sam "the talk" and had made it more than clear that they were to always carry and use protection. Sam knew that Dean kept a box in his duffel and one in his wallet at all times.

Sam had one in his wallet too, but it was just for show. They never stayed anywhere long enough to have a girlfriend and Sam didn't prescribe to his brother's cavalier attitude toward the fairer sex.

But Sam was just too relieved to see his father home safe and in one piece. Too guilty over the way he had acted the last time they were together. Maybe it was because his mother was just a pretty woman in a photograph.

He didn't have Dean's memories of her and talking about her was practically taboo in their messed up little family. It was hard to have a single minded devotion to a woman that he had never known. Whose death and memory was the catalyst to all of the instability and unhappiness in his life.

Sam couldn't fault his father for finding some momentary happiness with another woman. He acknowledged the tragedy that was his mother's death and keenly felt the guilt that she had died in flames over his crib. He genuinely loved the _idea_ of his mother, but he didn't remember her touch, or her voice or her pretty face. Sam wasn't so sure that he wouldn't be able to love another maternal figure in his life if presented with the opportunity. And his father was still a man with needs.

He didn't say anything as he mulled this over in his mind.

"I heard there was problem while I was gone," John stated quietly.

Sammy squirmed and blushed, partially hiding his face in the pillow. He looked as miserable as John felt. John reached over and ran his fingers through Sam's thick chestnut hair, Sammy leaning into the touch. It never failed to amaze the boy that a hand that could so painfully wield a stinging strap could be so gentle and soothing too.

"It's my fault, Sammy. I put too much pressure on Dean. It's me he's mad at, not you."

Sam huffed disbelievingly, his facing morphing into one of pain and hurt. John stilled his hand and took Sam by the chin, forcing the boy to look into his eyes and believe his words.

"Your brother loves you more than anything in the whole world, kiddo. He would die for you in a heartbeat and he would kill anyone, myself including, for harming you. He didn't mean what he said. He was angry and hurt and betrayed."

Sam looked at his father as long as he could before becoming uncomfortable. He wanted to hold on to his anger and hurt at his brother. Keep it and cuddle it like a precious pet. Dean's words hurt ten times more than his belt had and Sam's emotions were still as raw as the welts on his behind. Deep down, he knew his father was right. For all of the teasing and tormenting and sternness on his brother's part, Sam knew that Dean loved him.

He didn't say anything further to his father. Relief at having the man home bled out the tension that his body had been existing on for the last few days, and Sam found himself growing sleepy as John resumed rubbing his back.

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Dean sat at the bar, the last patron left in dingy semi-darkness. In front of him was an assortment of pint and shot glasses. His stomach was queasy, but his brain was thankfully going numb. A quick glance at the clock on the wall told him that it was creeping up on closing time. Very soon he would have to find another means of delaying his return to the salvage yard. He wasn't quite ready to go back and slink inside.

With the alcohol swirling around in his head, he paid a little more attention to the formerly comely barmaid and surprisingly found his body responding with bit of interest. Probably because it had been too long since his last hook up, and more than likely encouraged by his desire to stay out a little longer.

It didn't take much to sweet talk her out of the bar and then out of her panties. Before he knew it, they were down the street at the small cape style house she rented. Groping and fumbling on the lumpy bed with the floral distinctively girlie smelling sheets and a curious Siamese cat that insisted on watching.

Less than an hour later, he gave her an excuse and a fake phone number and stumbled out to his car where he promptly threw up the majority of the booze he had consumed. His head already beginning to throb even as waves of drunkenness still blurred his vision, he foolishly got into the car and turned towards the salvage yard before his courage left him.

Even in his inebriated state, it didn't take long to make his way back to the house. The sky was overcast and pitch black. The perimeter lights were on, deterring anything stupidly human or demonically evil from approaching further.

Dean slowed the Impala down and then parked further down the drive than he normally would have. The house looked dark and he didn't want to risk waking anyone up with the rumble of her powerful engine. Nor was he quite ready to face his father.

He exited the car slowly, careful to minimize the squeak of the door hinges. He swung the door closed gently, sealing it by pushing against it with his hip until he heard the click of the lock catching. Long ago his father had taught him the art of silent breaking and entering. Just one more talent in the Winchester arsenal and one more thing that he had learned at John's side. His earlier words came back to haunt him and he felt his stomach roll over in guilt.

He was silent and sure footed as he made his way up the porch stairs, gently easing open the front door and slipping inside into the darkness of the interior.

In retrospect, he shouldn't have been surprised when the reading lamp on Bobby's desk snapped on. His father always caught him when he was trying to sneak into the house. It didn't stop him on the rare occasions when he had broken his curfew.

Caught, he turned around to face his father, wincing internally at the obvious pain and exhaustion on the man's face. John should be in bed, catching up on much needed sleep and allowing his injuries a chance to start healing. He shouldn't have to be waiting up for his selfish insolent son to stumble home after a bender and a cheap hook up.

Dean didn't say anything, the shame too strong to verbalize. The apology he wanted to give dying on his lips before he could force himself to utter a sound. He couldn't meet his father's eyes, instead glancing over to the sofa where the little sleeping lump of his newest brother reminded him of his harsh words.

He stood now staring at the threadbare carpet as his father walked over to him. The uneven gait of the man's steps serving as another cold reminder of his father's injuries.

John's heart threatened to break over the obvious guilt and remorse on his boy's face. But, upon closer inspection, he took in a breath of the combined scent of smoke, scotch and sex permeating Dean's clothes. It wasn't altogether unexpected. But he had also clearly heard the Impala come up the driveway and Dean was certainly in no condition to have been driving it safely.

"You've been drinking," he stated, his voice low and rumbling.

Dean took in a shaking breath and kept his eyes glued to the floor.

"Yes, sir."

"And you still thought it was a good idea to drive yourself home?"

Now Dean closed his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest, his head hanging lower in submission.

"Yes, sir."

John growled low in his throat. His disappointment in his son obvious. He was too tired for this crap and didn't have the energy to further discuss anything at this point. He hadn't been able to make himself sleep until he knew that his oldest boy was back safe and sound, brushing aside Singer's offer to wait for him himself. All he wanted now was to hole up in the recliner next to the sofa where he could stretch out, catch some shut-eye, and still keep an ear out for sounds of Adam waking.

Reaching over, he grabbed Dean by a belt loop and held him still while he pulled the keyring for the Impala out of the boy's front pocket and placed them in his own.

"These are mine until you show me that you'll stop acting foolish with them," he scolded sternly. "Whether you think it or not, I did raise you better than that. Whatever you may think of me right now, I will not stand for you endangering yourself like that. Not ever."

The censure cut deep and Dean winced from the heat of the words. He felt his father tug further on the belt loop and he was forcefully jerked to the side a second before John's hand cracked smartly across his behind.

"Get your ass upstairs and into the shower. I don't want you sharing your brother's bed smelling like a whorehouse. We'll talk about this tomorrow.

Dean felt his face flush and tears threatened to spill. He knew how badly he messed up.

"Yes, sir," he muttered quietly before obediently heading for the stairs.

Upstairs Dean crept down the hall to the bathroom. He flipped on the light and took a good look at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot from the booze and smoke of the bar. He shed his clothes and jumped into the shower, letting the scalding hot water wash away the filth he felt caked in. The steady stream of water began to counteract the booze and he felt himself sobering slightly, the guilt still weighing heavily around his neck as he shut the shower off and exited in a cloud of steam.

Wearing just a towel wrapped around his hips, he tiptoed into the room that he shared with Sammy and saw his little brother asleep, the blankets bunched up in a heap around his knees. Sammy had always been a restless sleeper. He deposited his soiled clothes in the duffel that held his dirty laundry and then pulled a pair of clean sleep pants out of the dresser.

Donning them quickly and hanging his damp towel on the doorknob, he quietly padded over to the bed, reaching down and easing the snagged bed linens away from Sam's legs. Straightening them, he covered Sam again before slipping underneath himself.

Sam was facing away from him on his side. He could tell from the way the boy's breathing changed that his little brother was awake now. Even though he kept his eyes shut, Sammy had never been able to fool him, had never been able to win any bedtime fights to stay up later than he was allowed.

In the darkness of the room, Dean reached over and wrapped his arm around the boy, gently tugging Sam against his chest and holding him tight.

"'m sorry, Sammy," he muttered, the tears and misery clear in his voice. "'m so so sorry."

He heard Sam's breath hitch and choke, the slight body held against his shudder briefly and then fall still again. He was about to give up and turn away, hurt, when he heard Sam's quiet voice.

"Jerk."

The single word warmed him with the strength of the sun and he could barely contain his emotions, but he knew that if he gave in to the chick flick moment, he wouldn't recover. So he did what he always did in uncomfortable times.

"Bitch."

SPNSPNSPNSPNSPN

Dean slept fitfully for a few hours until the sun rose, only to be woken by the sounds of a small commotion going on downstairs. He glanced at Sam quickly, assuring himself that the younger boy was still sleeping soundly, safe and secure. He eased himself out of the bed to avoid waking his little brother and quickly pulled on a clean shirt before grabbing his pistol out of the duffel and making his way stealthily down the stairs.

"Adam, please come out."

Hearing his father's tired, but calm voice, Dean dropped his guard and lowered the gun. Although still feeling immense guilt from his earlier actions, he continued on into the living room, pausing in the doorway where Bobby was standing. His Dad was standing next to the arm of the couch where it meet the arm of Bobby's recliner.

When they were younger and smaller, Dean and Sam had often taken that precious corner space and used Bobby's older blankets and sheets to cover it, making a fort where no adults were allowed. Stepping closer, Dean could just make out the small body of his newest sibling, now inhabiting his old hideout.

The frustration and exhaustion was etched deeply into every line on his father's face. John didn't look like he had managed much sleep and he clearly wasn't up to the task of soothing a traumatized eight year old in his current condition.

Acting instinctively, Dean ducked his head and slipped past Bobby and then his father as he made his way over to the corner space. He raised his head briefly to silently ask for his father's consent to intervene. John hesitated for a quick second and then nodded, allowing it.

Smiling slightly, Dean dropped to the floor and stretched out next to the leg of the chair.

"You know," he began quietly, "when I was your age, I used to like that place too. It always made me feel safe. Like nothing could hurt me when I was in there. It's a special place, you know. Just the right size. Big enough to sit in, but too small to let the bad things inside. You're protected in there."

When he heard a little whimper, Dean frowned in sympathy and turned to catch a peek of the tiny blond child inside.

"It's okay," he said quietly. "You're safe here. I promise I won't let anything hurt you. You just have to trust me a little, okay?"

Dean didn't push. He let Adam take his time, slowly processing his words and surroundings. As he patiently sat there, pulling at a loose thread on his sleep pants, his father and Bobby keeping their distance, he waited until he heard a tiny voice come from the corner.

"Okay."

A smile spread across Dean's face and he turned towards Adam again.

"My name is Dean. What's yours?"

He could see Adam shifting slightly closer to the small opening made by the touching arms of the sofa and chair.

"Adam."

"Well, Adam. I was thinking about having some chocolate milk. Do you like chocolate milk?"

There was a short unsure pause and Dean worried briefly that he might be pushing too hard, when he heard the small voice again.

"Yes, please."

Smiling again, Dean raised himself off the floor and headed towards the kitchen. When he reached where his father was standing, he had to force himself to look up at John.

John had watched the scene unfold in front of him, not at all surprised by the outcome. Dean had always had such a gentle way with kids. It belied his tough exterior, but John's eldest son had a kindhearted nature about him. Always talking _to_ children and not _down_ to them. They responded to Dean and it was what had always made him such a good guardian for Sam.

Now as Dean stood before him, wounded and contrite, John didn't have the heart to further chastise his eldest over his earlier behavior or words. When Dean finally lifted his face, John saw the naked pleading in his boy's eyes for forgiveness and the normally gruff man tenderly reached out and pulled his son in for a hug.

John heard Dean mutter a quiet _"I'm sorry"_ as he pressed his face into his father's shoulder. He didn't respond, just held Dean close for a moment and then pressed a kiss on top of the spiked hair. Dean soaked up the comfort for a moment and then pulled away, not wanting to keep Adam waiting.

His father tiredly watched him make two large glasses of chocolate milk, Dean carrying them carefully over to the little hiding place. He heard Dean ask for permission to join Adam inside, promising to show the little boy a neat trick.

Standing in the middle of the corner space, Dean handed Adam both glasses of milk and then reached over and grabbed the blanket that Adam had been sleeping under. With deft and practiced moves, Dean tugged it over them, using the furniture to make a tent over the hiding place.

John remembered this from his boys' childhood. They would spend hours in their fort together, safe from prying eyes and the things that go bump in the night.

Sitting inside the little tent, Dean tucked his long legs underneath himself, trying to get comfortable despite his tall height. Adam slowly sipped at his milk, the frown on his face eerily similar to Sammy's. On closer inspection, Dean could see several similarities between Adam, Sam and himself. But the worst one of all was the haunted look in the little boy's eyes.

Dean clearly remembered seeing that exact look in the mirror for many years after his mother's death.

"Is he really my dad?" Adam asked, his tiny voice shaking and unsure, breaking Dean's heart just a little more.

"Yep," Dean answered. "He's my Dad too. We're lucky Adam. Our dad is a hero."

Adam raised large trusting eyes and Dean gently cupped his chin.

"And I'm your big brother. And I promise that nothing will harm you as long as I'm around.


End file.
